A Grimm Set of Games
by nightfuries
Summary: Grimm's fairytales and the Hunger Games; what do they both have in common? They're gruesome, captivating and ultimately draw in masses of people who enjoy being entertained by these two similar things. So when a new fad sprouts up in the Capitol and everyone begins to obsess over old fairytales, the Gamemakers decide it's time to give the 37th annual Hunger Games a "Grimm" twist
1. Prologue: A Magical Games

_**So this is just a little preview of what the story's going to end up being. The rest will most likely be written in first person present. Don't forget to submit a character!**_

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><p><em>4 months before the 37th Games...<em>

Kelwin Metoph was exhausted. He'd just sat through a twelve hour meeting with all the Gamemakers for this year's Hunger Games, and he still couldn't get the buzzing of their voices out of his head. In particular, the voice of Head Gamemaker Lilibeth declaring harshly that if a good idea for this year's Games wasn't suggested soon she just might fire the entire team and start fresh. And Kelwin took her threats very seriously.

The problem was, the audience was getting bored. It has been 12 years since the last Quarter Quell, and the excitement had long since worn off. The citizens of the Capitol wanted more than just your average Games, and unfortunately the Gamemakers just weren't providing. It was hard coming up with ideas after 37 years. A lot had been done.

Kelwin sighed and pulled his car into the driveway. At least he was home now, and he'd have a few hours respite before he had to go back to the office and repeat the whole day over again. He was not looking forward to that.

The lights in the house blinked on as he stepped across the threshold, breathing in the lingering scents of steak and potatoes. It smelled divine. He closed the door behind him and headed towards the kitchen, following his nose. Ah, wonderful, his dear Verena had left some out for him. He sat down at the table and began to eat just as his wife walked through the door.

"Hello dear. How was work?" She asked, leaning against the doorframe, already in her nightgown. She came over to him and began to massage his neck. "Difficult day?"

"Absolutely awful," he said through a mouthful of steak. He washed it down with some milk and continued. "Lilibeth's getting on our case about the arena idea this year. Says nothing's "creative" enough."

"Mm, well, I'm sure you'll think of something." She smiled. "You always do."

He blushed. It wasn't _always_ him to come up with the idea. He'd just happened to have a good one a few years previously where it was as though the tributes were shrunk and the arena was huge. It had gone over pretty well with the Capitol audience. Unfortunately that meant that Lilibeth was constantly expecting _him_ to come up with an idea this time around. And if he didn't he'd be out of a job. He sighed; the life of a Gamemaker wasn't easy. He glanced over at his wife and noticed the strange new design on her arm. "What's that?" he asked.

"This?" She asked, gesturing to the long, green tattoo that wound up and around her arm like a giant vine. "It's a beanstalk. From one of those old fairytale stories. They're all the rage right now."

Old fairytales? He hadn't heard of this fad. Mind you, he spent more and more of his days at the office than at home the past few months, so it was understandable. He was pulled from his thoughts as his wife continued to speak. "Which reminds me, the kids are waiting for you."

"Ah, right. Guess I'd better not keep them waiting." Despite the various technologies being made to entertain children, Kelwin's kids still enjoyed it more if it was him reading them a bedtime story and not some small electronic device.

"I picked up a new book for them today," Verena said, following him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "Have fun dear." He nodded and entered his kids' bedroom, only to be attacked as two small beings launched themselves at him with cries of "Daddy!"

"Whoa, calm down there kids, Daddy's going to fall over." Reluctantly six year-old Breccan detached himself from Kelwin's leg while nine year-old Annora settled herself on one of the two beds in the room waiting for him to come sit by her. Though the house was pretty big the kids still shared a room, partly because their mother thought it would be good bonding for them and also because when Kelwin had asked them whether they wanted separate bedrooms or two rooms just for toys they'd responded the latter without a doubt.

"Mommy got us a new book to read!" Annora said, holding up the big, aged looking book proudly for her father to see.

"I wanna hold it!" Breccan cried, but Annora yanked it away from him.

"I'm oldest, I get to hold it."

"But I wanna!"

"Alright kids, why don't we let Daddy hold the book, okay?" The two stopped bickering and Annora eagerly held the book out to her father. He took it and settled down on the bed while she leaned in close and Breccan hopped onto Kelwin's lap. "Here we go," Kelwin said, opening the book and gazing at the contents. It seemed to be not one story, but a collection of tales bound together in one tome.

"Read the one about the pr-princess," Annora said, slowly sounding out the word and pointing at the table of contents.

"I don't wanna read about princesses!" Breccan wailed.

"Well I do and I'm oldest so-"

"How about we read _Hansel and Gretel_," said Kelwin, trying to find a story they'd both like. _They certainly have odd names in this book_, he thought, turning to the page where the tale began. "Look," he said, gesturing to the pictures accompanying the story. "There's a boy and a girl, just like the two of you."

The kids thought about this for a second, then nodded and Kelwin began the story. But it seemed his children were more interested in the vibrant illustrations. He had to admit, they were enchanting. A scary forest, a house made of candy (which his kids seemed to love). A lot of creativity was put into these stories. _Creativity_. Just like what the Games needed.

"Can we have a house made out of candy?" Annora asked sleepily as he tucked her into bed. Breccan nodded vigorously and started chewing on one of his many teddy bears for effect. "Breccan our house isn't candy yet," she scolded her brother, but he just smiled and said, "Yum."

"We'll see honey," Kelwin said, eager to put the kids to bed as fast as possible. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight Daddy!" they chorused, and he got up and flicked off the lights. Slowly he made his way down the hall until he was intercepted by his wife, who had come out of their bedroom.

"Are you going to tuck me in now, Daddy?" she asked with a playful smile. He grinned back, but he couldn't sleep, not yet. He had important work to do.

"I'm sorry honey, but I have to get this work done first."

"Work," she echoed, glancing at the book of children's tales under his arm. "Alright, but come to bed soon. You need some rest."

"I will," he said, giving her a light kiss before heading back downstairs to his study. He plopped the book onto his desk and began flipping through it, eying each illustration with care. This just might work. He grabbed the phone and dialled Lilibeth's number, knowing she wouldn't enjoy being called at this hour, but it didn't matter. The phone rang twice before it was picked up and a crisp "Hello?" reached his ear.

"Lilibeth, its Kelwin, one of the senior Gamemakers," he said, still scanning the book. A miniature house, a tall, looming tower, the giant beanstalk Verena had told him about. This just might work.

"Gamemaker Kelwin, have you any idea what time it is?"

"I know ma'am and I'm sorry. But listen," Kelwin smiled. This was his big moment. "I have an idea that's going to make these the most magical Games yet!"


	2. District 1: Fun Loving and Fearless

_**So here are the District 1 reapings! This should have been out yesterday, but I was slightly delayed. So here you go now! Hopefully they went alright, you can always let me know through a review! :)**_

_**Anyways, thank you to natural disaster and Elnur for these fantastic tributes!**_

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><p><strong>Cordelia Schylla's POV<strong>

It's five against one. The towering figures loom over me, each one armed with a knife at the least. Whereas I have no weapon, no allies, and almost no energy left. But maybe I can last for one more fight.

The first figure lunges and I grab its arm and swing myself around, redirecting the fatal blow meant for me at one of the other beings. It falls to the ground as I wrench the sword from Figure 1 and stab him in the gut. Two down, three to go. I twist on the spot and duck as Figure 3's mace strikes the wall right were my head previously was. I jab him in the arm with my sword, slowing him down, then somersault behind him and finish him off with another thrust of the sword. Grabbing the mace I whirl around and swing it at the fourth attacker, whose axe is raised above his head. Too bad he never got to use it. He tips over and I'm left standing over the corpse. Wait a minute. I got three with the sword, one with a mace. That's four…

I let out a small squeal as cold hands grip me from behind. Try as I might, I can't break free of the iron grip. It holds me in one hand as the other raises a gun, pointing straight at my heart. I struggle even more, but it's no use. The finger pulls back on the trigger and with a _bang!_ the bullets fly out, aiming to kill. That's it. It's all over.

"Hahaha," I laugh as the foam bullets bounce off my chest. "That tickles!"

Someone flicks the off switch on the training dummy holding me and it lets me fall to the ground. I push myself up and come face to face with my father wearing an extremely disappointed face.

"Cordelia Elizabeth Schylla, this is _no_ laughing matter."

Uh oh, the middle name. That means I'm in trouble. I put my hands on my hips and stare up at my father. "But he had a gun! That wasn't fair!"

"Do you think the other kids in the arena are going to play fair? Do you think they'll hesitate to kill you just because it's not nice?"

"No Dad," I say, giving the response I know my father wants to hear.

"You still need to work on your skills with weapons. You're fair with a bow and arrow, but you definitely need more training with an axe and you could use some tips on how to properly hold a spear-"

"Dad," I say firmly, cutting him off. "I'll be fine. I've been training for ages and I'm going to volunteer today. Besides, I learned from the best."

My dad's face relaxes and he gives me a smile. "Alright sweetie. I think your mother's up, why don't you go see if breakfast if ready?"

"Okay." I nod and head out of the room, grinning. My dad may try to play up the big mean training coach role, but inside I know that he's my lovable softie of a father. And I do want to volunteer this year, to make him happy. I'll be 16, just like he was when he won the 20th Hunger Games. Like father like daughter.

I walk through our house in Victor's Village and soon arrive at the kitchen. Dad was right, mom is up. And she's made pancakes. I breathe in the delicious smells and hurry to take my seat at the dining table.

"How was training Cori?" asks my mother as she sets a plate in front of me. I give her a thumbs up and dig into the food, pausing only to pour some syrup before continuing. My dad enters the room and mom greets him with a kiss on the cheek before handing him his own plate.

"You two were up early today," she says as the two of them sit across from me.

"Less time to train today, Reapings in the afternoon," my dad replies. "Oh, Cori that reminds me, I was thinking after breakfast we could head to the gym and practice your climbing skills. And maybe do a few laps as well."

I make a face. Running is fine but I absolutely _despise_ climbing. Besides, I was planning on hanging out with my Bree and Caspian today.

"Oh, Michael give her a break," my mom says, swatting him playfully on the arm. "The two of you have spent more time in the training gym then at home these past few months. And anyways, Cori probably has plans with her friends."

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. I swallow the rest of my pancakes and gesture to my parents that it's for me before running to get it. The smiling faces of Bree and Caspian, my two best friends, greet me as I open the door

"Hey Cori," Bree says. She takes in my sweaty training outfit and grins. "Working hard?"

Training is actually what brought the three of us together. I remember meeting them for the first time in the training gym at the tender age of six. Caspian had just knocked over the barrel of powder the gymnasts put on their hands to help them stick to the bars and was sentenced to cleaning it up by a very annoyed trainer. Bree and I had stooped to help him and our friendship was born. Okay, admittedly we'd both laughed at him first, but then we did help him clean up. We've been inseparable ever since.

"Yeah. Come on in guys, I'll be ready in a sec." I usher them in and dash up the stairs to my room where my Reaping clothes were laid out last night. Normally mother buys me a new dress for the occasion, but today I need something I can move in. There are always plenty of volunteers in our District, and whoever can get to the stage first gets the honour of going into the Games.

After throwing on some silky black pants and a red cardigan I hurry back down to my friends, who are making polite talk with my parents. They know my dad pretty well, as he's given them tips and pointers to help them train.

Some people might find that odd that my dad is helping other kids train, but I don't. There's never been an ounce of competition between the three of us when it comes to the Games. We've all agreed that we're going to break a record and have District 1 bring home three victors in a row. Me, for the 37th Games, Caspian for the 38th and Bree for the 39th. We'll go down in Hunger Games history.

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><p><strong>Achilles Atromitos's POV<strong>

A haunting, clear melody rouses me from the depths of sleep, soft and slow yet powerful at the same time. Though no words accompany this eerie tune, I would recognise it anywhere. It's Marie's song.

I rise from my bed, in a daze, and slowly walk out of my room in search of the source of the noise. Opening the door across the hall from mine softly, I enter the kids' bedroom. Deimos is still sleeping, his tiny face peaceful for once, but Quinne is sitting up in her bed, humming to herself as she plays idly with her doll. I come closer to her and she looks up from whatever game she was playing. "Daddy," she whispers. Even at two years of age, she's already grasped the idea of keeping quiet when her twin brother is still asleep.

Her words bring me back to reality and for the first time that morning my eyes focus on her, actually seeing my little daughter instead of looking past, of envisioning someone else where she sits. "Hey Quinne," I say, taking a spot on the edge of her bed. She crawls over the blankets to come sit on my lap. "What were you singing there?"

"Daddy's song," she says, pointing at me with her finger. _Daddy's song?_ Had I ever sung that to them before?

Small memories pierce my mind. Cleaning the dishes while humming the tune. Making jewellery for my godfather's business while singing it under my breath. All these moments in life; little in importance but large in numbers. Of course Quinne would have picked up the tune. And a small part of me can't help but think, _she had her mother's voice._

"Daddy?"

Once again, Quinne's words stir me from the fog of misery clouding my head. I look at her. "Yeah Quinny?"

"I hungry."

I smile. "Well let's get you some food then." Balancing her on my hip, I carry her down to the dark kitchen, flicking on the lights as I go. She sits on the ground and resumes her game as I get out some crackers and peanut butter and start slathering it on with a knife, making her favourite snack. Unfortunately the menial task isn't enough to distract my wandering mind, which is still focused on Marie. I could almost see her this morning, that tune bringing me back to when we first met. The silly contest, not really meant to be anything, her friends pushing her to try and that song, the melody that still haunted him. And with the relentless melody came the guilt, always the guilt. Neither had left his mind for even a moment these past two years since she passed away.

Soon enough, I hear the tell-tale sounds of my godfather waking up and moments later he's coming down the stairs, a sleepy Deimos trailing behind. I owe everything to Zeus Dynamos, one of my father's best friends. My parents died when I was young, and I had no relatives and nowhere to go until he took me in. Apparently my father and him had made a pact when they were teens that if either of them died and left behind children, the other would care for them. They grew somewhat estranged when Zeus went off to the Hunger Games and came back a victor, but he always remembered his promise to my dad.

"So," my godfather begins, "Reaping day today."

"Mm," I say, sliding the scrambled eggs out of the frying pan and onto the plates while Quinne and Deimos hurry to climb into their seats.

"Your last year."

"Yeah." I sink into my own chair and begin to eat, barely repressing a sigh. I know where this is going.

"Any plans for what you're going to do?"

_Cross my fingers and pray I'm not reaped, _I think. But I can't say that to him, even though he knows that's what I'll do. Ever since I came to stay with him Zeus has been training me to follow in his footsteps and win the Hunger Games. I guess my tall, muscular build did nothing to dissuade him from the idea that I could easily emerge victorious. But I hate the Games and want to tell him that the idea of them makes me sick, but I don't. Instead I keep all my negative thoughts on them hidden away, where they can't hurt anybody. Sometimes I wish my godfather had children, then maybe he'd understand the horror most parents must feel if their children are reaped. I know I could never let that happen to Quinne and Deimos.

"Achilles," my godfather says. "Look at me."

I raise my head, seeing the hope in his eyes that I'll volunteer and come home a victor. But they harden as they examine my own, the fact that I'm not going into the Games if I can help it written all over my face. I hope he won't start another fight, not today.

"I'll take the kids to Abalone," I say, trying to find any excuse to leave. Abalone is an old woman who runs a small jewellery shop in the district. Occasionally I make a few products for her and in exchange she'll watch the kids from time to time. But Zeus grabs my arm before I can go.

"Achilles," he begins, but then stops. I guess today isn't a day he wants to start a fight either. He let's go and I'm leading the kids to the door when he calls out, "I just wish you'd live up to your family name is all."

My family name, Atromitos. Fearless in Ancient Greek. Yeah right.

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><p><strong>Cordelia's POV<strong>

After a few hours of mischievous fun, involving a potato and one shopkeeper who will probably never let the three of us into his shop again, we head to the square for the Reapings. I don't know how other districts celebrate today, but I'm pretty sure none of them go as all out as we do. Different coloured gems hang down on the ends of streamers tacked to buildings, acting as prisms for the sunlight to reflect off of them and shine all sorts of different shades. In short, the square looks absolutely magical.

Bree, Caspian and I give our names to the Peacekeepers and head over to the sixteen year-olds section. We're wedged in with a bunch of other kids in our district, more than half of which our probably setting their sights on volunteering this year. But I will make it. Luckily the fact that my father's a victor holds some power over everyone, and I'm able to secure a spot closer to the front. Bree squeezes my shoulder and we share a smile. Today I _will_ make it into the Hunger Games. I _will_ continue our family's legacy and I most certainly _will_ come home alive.

The mayor's speech is over and done with quickly and soon our escort dances onto the stage. She looks happy and why wouldn't she be? She's in charge of the best district in Panem. She makes a few comments hinting that these Games will be even more exciting than the others, which only serves to make me more excited. I bounce up on my heels, willing her to get on with it, and accidentally hit Caspian in the face as my long brown ponytail swishes with my body. I grin apologetically and turn my attention back to the front as the escort makes her over to the glass ball containing the girls' names.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, we're about to find out which special boy and girl will get the honour of competing in this year's Hunger Games!"

Finally.

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><p><strong>Achilles's POV<strong>

I'm almost relieved when it's time to head to the Reapings. Handing the kids over to Abalone and not wanting to head back to the house for fear of a confrontation with my godfather left me with plenty of time on my hands. I hadn't even realised where my feet had taken me until it was right in front of me. Marie's grave.

I just stood there for hours, thinking about her lying no more than four feet away from me, skin the colour of chocolate, so rare in District 1, curly black hair, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle when she laughed. And one thought kept repeating itself over and over again in my head, in time with the beating of my heart. _It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault._

I'd been the one to insist she keep the twins when she was pregnant. She didn't want to at first, she thought she was too young to have kids she was worried what people might think. But I told her I'd protect her from them, I'd protect her from anything. When really I killed her.

So when I hear a man shout at his friend that it's time to go, I get up from where I was kneeling and attempt to brush the dirt off of my pants before heading out to the square and piling in with all the other 18 year-olds. My eyes pick out Abalone in the crowd of parents with a kid on each hip. Up on the stage my godfather sits with the other past six victors. Our eyes meet briefly and I can see in the harshness of his gaze that he's still disappointed I won't be volunteering.

The escort walks up on stage and suddenly I'm worried, though I shouldn't be. I've never had to take tessera, and anyways, someone always volunteers. But though my last name may mean fearless, I am anything but at the moment. My palms begin to sweat and I run them down my pants in an effort to dry them._ It's not going to be me_, I repeat to myself. I just want this moment to freeze; I don't want that escort to walk over to the glass bowls containing hundreds of names. _It's not going to be me_.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, we're about to find out which special boy and girl will get the honour of competing in this year's Hunger Games!"

Please no.

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><p><strong>Cordelia's POV<strong>

My eyes stay glued to the escort as she traipses over to the bowl containing the girl's names and digs her hand in. I tense my legs, ready to race over there once she asks for volunteers. We may enjoy volunteering for the Games, but we still wait for the right moment to, unlike the rude members of District 2.

"Caitlin Hathwell!"

A skinny thirteen year-old makes her way to the stage. The sound of hollow footsteps rings out as she climbs to the stage and I imagine it as a countdown. Five, four, three, two...

"Are there any volunteers?" the escort calls out.

_Bam!_ It's as though someone's shot off a gun to start a race. I try to run as at least a dozen more girls attempt to surge forwards towards the stage. But I have one thing all these girls don't; great friends. Out of the corner of my eye I see Caspian struggling to hold back two smaller girls. He gives me a thumbs up and I nod and keep running. I'm in the clear- no, wait. A massive girl from the fourteen section is speeding towards the stage. I push myself harder, ignoring the complaints from my legs, but it's not enough. There's no way I can make it before her.

Just as she puts her foot on the first step of the stage, someone comes flying out from behind and tackles her. It's Bree. The bigger girl manages to push her off, but the delay was all I needed and I dash past her and up to the stage. I hear her furious shrieks from behind me, but they barely register. _I made it. I'm going into the Games._

My dad is beaming at me as I shake his hand and each of the other mentors'. Then I turn back to the escort as she asks "And what's your name, hon?"

"My name is Cordelia Schylla!" I say, shouting it out so the whole crowd can hear me. They whoop and cheer as they recognise the last name of one of their victors; I can tell they're excited for these Games. And I will give them a show they'll never forget.

"Let's choose the lucky boy now, shall we?" She wanders over to the bowl but honestly I don't care who he'll be. We'll work together in the Career alliance and then go our separate ways. But I'll be the only one leaving that arena alive.

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><p><strong>Achilles's POV<strong>

The crowd attempts to reorganise itself after the disruption of volunteers for the female tribute. I can see the girl, Cordelia, standing up on stage, trying to tone down the delighted smile she's wearing. I recognise her, vaguely. She lives in Victor's Village as well, though admittedly I don't have much time getting to know people. Her father was a past victor, that I remember.

And now our escort, Cherry Kwinee I think someone called her, is walking over to the boys bowl and around me everyone tenses, ready to lunge forward when volunteers are called. She gropes around then finally grabs a slip before clearing her throat and reading aloud.

"Achilles Atromitos!"

I freeze, everything inside me tensing up and going cold. Me? She called me? But then the moment of panic passes and I remember all the other eighteen year-olds around me ready to volunteer. All I have to do is walk up onto that stage, and soon I'll be coming right back down again, my life saved my some stranger craving eternal glory. I start to head over when something catches my eye. A woman, standing not too far from Abalone and my kids, is watching, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. It confuses me; I have no idea who she is. But then I realise she isn't looking at me, she's looking at one of the boys in the thirteen year-olds section. He may be young, but he's got that diehard Career look so common to our district. He's trying to volunteer for sure. But unlike most parents in our district, his mother doesn't want him to volunteer. She wants to keep him safe, she wants him at home with her and their father to live happily ever after.

Just how many parents are like this in the district? Even the ones pushing their kids to volunteer would feel some remorse and sadness when their children died in the arena. And I realise, I can't let anyone take my place. If I did, I would be sending them off to their deaths. Their parents would weep with the loss of their child and once again, another death would be all my fault. I can't let that happen.

I reach the stage and head over to the escort. "Will there be any volunteers?" she asks quizzically into her microphone.

"No," I say harshly, grabbing her microphone from her. The gaggle of boys who surged forwards at the word "volunteers" stop in their tracks. "There won't be."

For the first time in my life, I am grateful to my grandfather for training me. As I stand on the stage, cold and menacing, my six feet five inches and muscular build enough to make anyone think twice about crossing me. The volunteers look around confusedly, wondering what to do. One boy starts forward hesitantly but stops immediately in the face of my glare. I don't like to do this, intimidating people into following my orders, but if it saves one of their lives in the end then so be it.

After a few minutes of silence it's clear that no one is going to step forward. "Well," the escort says, trying to get the ball rolling again. I hand her back her microphone and go to stand next to Cordelia, who's eyeing me curiously. "Alright," Cherry finally says. "Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District 1!" The crowd bursts into cheers and the anthem begins to play. I keep my face emotionless throughout the entire thing, trying to ignore the small grin creeping onto my godfather's face.

Well I hope he's happy.

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><p><em><strong>Well, that's District 1! I was going to put in the goodbyes but I think I'll save that for a flashback in later chapters. After all, can't have all the reapings follow the same format! Then it wouldn't be interesting :)<strong>_

_**I'm still looking for some tributes, mostly males, so please send in your tributes! Also, check out this link: .net/forum/The_Hunger_Games_SYOT_Awards/104224 It's for the Hunger Games SYOT Awards, if you couldn't tell, so make sure to check it out!**_


	3. District 2: What the Future Holds

_**Here are the District 2 reapings! I'm sorry, I wasn't feeling my best today and the chapter might have suffered for it. But I'll definitely be going into greater detail with these characters in later chapters.**_

_**On a different note, I'm going to do a bit of advertising here and ask you all to check out this amazing Hunger Games fic called Tears of Blood. 24 authors, each fantastic at writing, have come together to create the ultimate Hunger Games story. Please check it out and help reach the goal of 1000 reviews! Here's the link .net/s/7608756/1/Tears_of_Blood (just put in front of it or find the link on my profile)**_

_**So without further ado, these characters were brought to you by Team Glimmer and xx-Twisted Fantasy-xx**_

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><p><strong>Rhine Carson's POV<strong>

In real life, no one could ever come close to mistaking me for my sister. My recklessness, sharp tongue and refusal to admit I'm wrong have all marked me as a polar opposite from my kinder, friendlier sister. Not to mention that she's practically famous.

But now, as I stand in the bathroom contemplating this, it's hard to remember that I'm looking through a mirror, not a window with Lura staring back at me from the other side. Our fair complexion, dark brown hair, dark green eyes, each and every feature identical. Though my sister and I fight constantly, at times like this it's hard to believe we're so different.

"Rhine, I know girls enjoy primping and preening for hours, but if you don't open this door in five seconds I'm going to knock it down myself!"

I roll my eyes and scowl, and the similarities between my sister and I disappear instantly. She would never be caught with such an unfriendly look on her face. I yank open the door to see my older brother Rush standing in the doorway. "What do you want?" I spit out.

"Come on Rhine, you're smarter than that." Rush grins. "Think. This is a bathroom. Normally when someone needs to use the bathroom it's because they want to-"

"Alright, alright I get it," I growl. If it had been anyone else I probably would have stayed in the bathroom for another hour, just to bug them, but instead I step out and allow my brother to pass through. Of everyone in our district, Rush is about the only one I can tolerate.

I tramp down the stairs to the kitchen, where my sister is still helping our father clean up after breakfast. Of course she is. Deciding I didn't want a lecture on how everyone wishes I was helpful like Lura, I avoid the kitchen and instead veer off into the living room, where my kitten Pascal is playing with one of the tassels on the couch pillows.

I found Pascal one rainy day abandoned at the edges of our district. He was wet and shivering and overall looked as pathetic as an animal could get. But when I threw him a piece of cheese I'd been eating, he didn't touch it. Even though his ribs were clearly visible against his fur, he didn't even give it a second glance. On the contrary he hissed at me and batted the food away with a paw. At first I considered the fact that he didn't like cheese, but this wasn't my first time being around a cat and I was pretty sure they all liked it. At the very least, they didn't hate it enough to turn it down when they were starving. And then I realised, the kitten was like me. Unwilling to accept help from others, relying on his own wits to survive and not anyone else.

I left him alone after that, but soon came to realise that he was always in that same spot. So I visited him, more and more. I just felt drawn to the one thing in the district just as independent as me. I'd bring food sometimes, though he never ate it the first few months. Eventually, he accepted my help and I, in a way, accepted his. There's something extremely comforting about having an animal to hold when you're in a bad mood, something about the soft licking of their tongue against your hand that just makes all the memories of your rotten day fade away. Finally, one day, I brought him home with me.

I sit on the couch for a while, just petting Pascal and teasing him with a loose piece of string, until one by one my family members finish getting ready for the Reapings. Lura, in a simple blue dress that accentuates her slender figure; Rush, who finally managed to tame is messy brown hair; my mother, in a rich, silk gown. Out of all of us, I think my mother's been the one enjoying the rich new life of living in Victor's Village the most. We're just waiting on my father when she finally notices I'm sitting in the living room.

"Oh, Rhine dear, hurry and get dressed. The Reapings are soon."

"I am dressed."

"What happened to the clothes I laid out for you?"

"Those?" I snort out a laugh. "I'm not wearing that frilly, skimpy shirt that calls itself a dress."

A hurt expression washes over my mother's face, but I don't care. All my life my parents have watched me like a hawk, protecting me from any "trouble." "For my own good," they say. Well I don't need anyone to look out for me, especially not them. And I am most certainly _not _letting my mother pick out my clothes like I'm five years old.

"Rhine," Lura says slowly. "It is a special occasion."

"Really? I didn't notice," I say sarcastically. "But I guess you would. Today you get to run off to the Capitol again, go to parties, have some fun, teach two kids how to kill each other…"

I might as well have punched her in the gut. Her face is more than hurt; it's heartbroken. Most of the kids in District 2 can't wait to spill some blood in the Games, but I know each time Lura killed it tore her apart. Of course it did. She's one of the nicest, kindest girls in the district. And now as I stand across from her I can't even believe that this morning I was contemplating how the two of us weren't that different.

My mother's staring at me, her mouth agape, and even Rush is looking surprised at how far I went. I can't stand it, I need to get out of this house.

"I'll see you at the Reapings," I say venomously, getting up and heading for the door. No one tries to stop me and after I slam it hard enough to rattle the glass frames in the windows I head out into the district. I don't really care where I end up going, just as long as it's as far away from this house as possible.

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><p><strong>Code Schuyler's POV<strong>

"… And so I heard Rege telling his girlfriends that he's going to volunteer this year and she said…"

"Mm," I say, trying to sound interested in what my best friend Awny is saying when really I'm focused on my newest trinket. It's this thing called a dream-catcher, and supposedly if you hang it in your house you won't get any nightmares.

"Yeah, and then he said that when he won she could come stay with him in his house in Victor's Village and they would party and have se-"

"Ahhh, don't need to hear about that part Awny."

"Sorry."

We sit in silence as I expertly weave two pieces of dried seaweed together to form the rim of the dream-catcher. I love any sorts of materials that come from the sea; shells, bits of coral, the rare pearl. They're always the prettiest materials for stuff. My mother always says I should have been born in District 4.

The streets of our district are pretty quiet today; most people are busy getting ready for the Reaping ceremony or out at the training gym trying to get a last few hours of practice in. My uncle wanted me to train today too, but my mom convinced him to let me have the day off. So Awny and I came down to my grandma's little fortune telling stall and made ourselves comfortable for the day.

Some people in our district think my grandmother's crazy. But it's really quite the opposite actually. She's a genius. She can tell someone's fate just by looking at the lines on their palm, or know if they're lying just by detecting fluctuations in their auras. She's been teaching me the art of divination for years now, almost as long as my uncle has been training me for the Hunger Games, but I still have a lot to learn.

"So like I was saying," Awny begins again, but stops as the sound of annoyed voices reach our ears.

"Maybe you should go back."

"I'm not going back, why in the world would I do that?"

"Rhine, I'm just trying to help."

"I don't anyone's help, least of all yours, Pierce."

Two people round the corner, a boy and a girl around my age. The girl's walking briskly across the street while the guy behind struggles to keep up with her. I vaguely recognise the girl, but at the moment I can't seem to place her.

"Care to know your fate?" My grandmother calls out to them.

The girl stops and turns to see who spoke. Her eyes find my grandmother, and then turn to stare at the sign above her shop. _The Mystic Side: Offers Fortune Telling, Palm Reading, Analysis of Tea Leaves._ She snorts. "If you're such a great _fortune teller_," she says, the word dripping with sarcasm, "Then one would think you wouldn't even need to ask the question."

"Many doubt the mystical art of divination," my grandmother replies. "But I sense that you especially could benefit from knowledge of the future."

My grandmother brings out her tarot cards. The boy, finally catching up to his companion, urges her to leave but she waves him off. Whether she believes in my grandmother or not, she's decided to stay, though I can tell by the smirk on her face that she's probably just here to have a laugh. I can't help but feel pricks of anger. Who does this girl think she is anyways?

My grandmother draws a card from the top of the deck and lays it down on the wooden table in front of her. "Five of Swords, conflict and strife." The girl just rolls her eyes, but I think my grandmother hit the nail on the head with that one. From what I've seen of her, conflict and strife look like her favourite past times.

"The Hermit," my grandmother continues, flipping over the next card. "For isolation and loneliness."

"Really? Well if that's the case you won't mind if I isolate myself from you," the girl sneers at my grandmother before turning on her heal and storming off. But I don't entirely believe her oh-so-superior attitude. One thing I've been getting good at with the help of my grandmother's teachings is the ability to detect someone's true intentions. And I think the Hermit card really touched a nerve with her.

Not that that gives her any excuse to be rude. I'm still bothered by her blunt dismissal of the tarot card meanings.

"Wasn't that that victor girl?" Awny asks. "The one who won two years ago?"

So that's where I remember her from. My uncle won the Games a whole ago, and occasionally I drop by his house in Victor's Village. But I always thought the victor was a lot nicer than she showed here. Then I remember. "That must be her twin," I say. I only saw them once together, standing outside their house as I left my uncle's, but I do remember that they were identical; there was practically no way to tell them apart. Except by their personalities.

I turn to my grandmother to see what she's thinking, but she's still holding the last tarot card, staring at it with an expression almost close to fear. "Grandma?" I ask. When she doesn't respond again I come around behind her to see what's wrong. My eyes fall on the card she still holds and my heart skips a beat.

"Death," my grandmother whispers.

Occasionally the Death card isn't all bad. It can also mark a time of transformation in someone's life. But when that card is drawn on the day of the Reapings, only a week from the beginning of the Hunger Games, it's pretty safe to assume that the card is meant to be taken literally. Which means that the girl who was so quick in dismissing the cards as utter nonsense had better watch out.

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><p><strong>Rhine's POV<strong>

Pierce and I soon enter the square, waiting in our section with the other 17 year-olds. I'm still seething over that insane woman and her tarot cards. But why should they bother me? After all, what she said was utter nonsense. I'm not lonely; I choose to be alone because everyone else is idiots.

Not that Pierce has really given me an option. I wouldn't call him my _friend_ exactly, but occasionally I can tolerate him for a few hours. Other times I'll tell him to get lost. He often voices aloud the question of why he ever puts up with me. I can't say I've ever been able to answer.

The mayor walks up onto the stage followed by the past seven victors District 2 has had. I tune out the long speech on the Dark Days, instead watching Lura closely. Whatever her reaction to my comments before, I'm still certain she enjoys going off to the Capitol. I know I would.

Soon our escort marches up to the stage. He's relatively new, just was assigned to our district a year ago, and seems to be very into the whole "military" aspect of life. We're all supposed to call him "General Boron" but I've got my own little nickname for him instead.

Anyways, General Moron turns to address the crowd, and instead of sounding happy and excited like most escorts, it sounds like he's shouting out orders.

"Hello District 2!" He yells, the veins in his neck bulging outwards. "Are you ready for the Hunger Games this year? Let's find out!"

He digs his hand into the girl's bowl and grabs a name. Around me dozens of people are tensing to run forwards and volunteer. You're technically supposed to wait until the escort asks for volunteers, but of course as my district is filled with uneducated barbarians, the rule is eagerly forgotten. A few girls are already shuffling forwards towards the stage.

"Rhine Carson!"

For a second I just stand there, utterly surprised, aware that Pierce and a few others are staring at me. But then I regain my composure and do my signature eye roll, waiting for the tumult of running feet signifying the many desperate girls attempting to volunteer for my spot.

But all I hear is silence.

No fighting, no running, no shouts of fury. The square is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Why isn't anyone volunteering?

"Rhine Carson, get your behind up here this instant before I have to come down there and carry it up myself!" The escort's voice cuts through the silence, his eyes searching the crowd for me, though he has no idea what I look like. For a second I'm tempted to make him come and get me, but decide against when the Peace Keepers start moving. So I just give a big dramatic sigh and start heading to the stage, feeling everyone's eyes follow me. But their eyes are the only thing that's moving, no one at all stepping forward to volunteer. This is almost unheard of in our district. I can't remember a Reaping where there wasn't a mad dash to the stage. Maybe this year they've finally decided to wait until the right time to do it.

I stand behind General Moron, fully aware that my sister is only a few steps behind me. I know she's looking at me, but I don't return her gaze, just stare off into the crowd and smirk. The general calls out for any volunteers and I wait, for surely there must be some now. This is their last chance to secure a spot in the Games.

Still, nothing but deathly silence can be heard in the square. And I realise as I look off into the crowd, that all the faces wear the same expression. Happiness. Glee. Satisfaction. That's when it hits me; they _want_ me to go into the Games and, more importantly, they want me to die. I had no idea my feelings of hatred towards them were mutual. They despise me and they're ready to watch me get killed on live TV.

Well then, they'd better be ready for a darn good show because I, Rhine Carson, am not going down without a fight.

* * *

><p><strong>Code's POV<strong>

Everyone's still getting over the fact that one of the most hated people in the district has just been reaped when our escort calls out the boy's name. And I race forwards, just like I have every year. I never make it to the stage first, there's always someone bigger or faster than me, but my uncle tells me to try every year so I do, partly for him and partly to impress others in my district.

But I wasn't expecting this year to actually be the first onto the stage. I guess everyone was still so focused on the girl tribute that they didn't notice when the boy's name was called until it was too late. I was already up the stairs. General Boron looks from me to the slip in his hand and asks "Are you Calloway Dean?"

"What?" Oh right, the name of the boy who got reaped. "No, I'm here to volunteer."

"There is a specific time for you to volunteer! Is it that time?" he shouts in my face. Man, this guy really plays up the general thing.

"I could go back and do it again," I suggest, getting a laugh from the crowd. The general stares at me for a second. "Just go stand in your place," he finally says, pointing at the spot next to the girl from before, Rhine. Looked like my grandmother was right about her. She's been reaped and practically the whole district is waiting to see her die. _Guess someone should have been a little nicer_, I think, a small smile forming on my face as I remember another mystical force my grandmother taught me about. Karma. What goes around comes around. And it looks like whoever this girl is, her karma's catching up to her _really _fast.

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><p><em><strong>Still in need of a few guy tributes! I had to cut a few girls unfortunately, but the D3, D11 and D8 male are still needed, so please submit a tribute and thank you to everyone who already did!<strong>_


	4. District 3: The Story of Their Lives

_**Here are the District 3 reapings! This chapter's slightly shorter than the others, I thought I'd give you guys a break from having to read so much :)**_

_**These tributes were created by TeamGlimmer and Thomas J. Flynn. Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Sparkie Jesfer's POV<strong>

_The air fills with the acrid smell of smoke as the knight nears the dragon's lair. His loyal steed whinnies softly, sensing the danger nearby, but continues bravely along the path. Bones lay scattered around, small animal bones as well as those from bears and horses. A pearly white human skull grins at the knight as he passes by, as though it is amused by the fact that he is going to his death. But he must keep going; the dragon had killed far too many people and attacked far too many villages for it to be left alone any longer. The knight himself had been a victim of the dragon's havoc, losing both his parents in a gigantic fire that claimed the entire town._

_ The opening of the cave looms into view. The knight draws his sword, looking around for any signs of the monster. A scream echoes through the air; it must be the young princess the dragon had most recently captured._

_"Show yourself, you cowardly beast!" The knight shouts. All is quiet for a moment. Then two huge yellow eyes appear in the darkness of the cave. They regard each other for a moment, before the dragon let's out an ear-splitting roar and torrents of flames come shooting out at the knight. But he's too fast for it; dodging the deathly heat he rides towards the dragon, uttering a battle cry of his own, sword pointed high in the sky, ready to taste the blood of the monster. He swings his sword and the dragon lets out a shriek as he slices one of its talons clean off. But it's not over yet. The dragon opens his mouth and let's out another breath of fire, this time aiming straight for the hero's head. He-_

"Yoo-hoo, Shimmer calling freak. Are you listening?"

I lower my head farther behind the book, eagerly flipping through the pages to see how the knight manages to avoid the attack.

_He takes his sword and thrusts it into the air, channelling the magic powers infused into the blade by the sorcerer who crafted it. Lighting strikes all around as he-_

The book is wrenched from my grasp and I look up to see my Shimmer looking at it in distaste. "Why do you read this kind of garbage anyways?" She sticks out her tongue and throws it away. "Dad says we're going in ten minutes!"

_Step-dad_, I think, hurrying over to pick up the book. _Not Dad, Step-dad. _Dad died in a factory accident eight years ago. _Step_-dad owned the factory and moved from District 1 to District 3 with his two kids so he could oversee operations and make sure no more "mistakes" happened. And when Mother came to pick up the money that would support us for one month after my father died, Step-dad decided to marry her. Supposedly he "fell in love," but I think that's a lie. The only true love my step-father has is his business.

I sigh and place the book lovingly back in its spot on the shelf. I guess I'll have to wait until after the Reapings to finish it. I start to head towards the door of my bedroom, but then hurry back and hide the book in the folds of the dress my mother urged me to wear to the Reapings. Maybe I can sneak a peek at it while the ceremony is going on.

I hurry through my house to the front door where my mother, step-father and Shimmer are already waiting. Since my step-dad originally came from District 1, we're quite well off compared to most of the other residents here. My mother wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a warm hug, which is comforting on a day like today. I know it's doubtful I'll get reaped, considering it's only my third year and I haven't even had to take tessera, but still, there's always a chance.

"Daddy! I can't find my other shoe!"

On the bright side, that means there's still a chance for my idiotic step-sisters to get reaped. Glimmer stomps down the stairs lopsidedly, one foot clad in a delicate blue shoe while the other has nothing but a fluffy pink sock.

"I'm ruined!" she cries dramatically. I doubt she and Shimmer even consider the possibility of getting reaped. Apparently they have much bigger problems to worry about.

"What do you mean? You look perfect from this angle," I say, tilting my head to the right side. Mother gives me a disapproving look as Glimmer dissolves into tears again. I sigh; every single year it's like this. Why couldn't my life be more exciting, like the lives of people in books. I'd much rather fight dragons and beasts than my two step-sisters, search for magical medallions and hidden swords rather than missing shoes. As my step-father sends me upstairs to help Shimmer and Glimmer look for the shoe, I can't help but think that there's so much more to life than this. Out there, some big adventure is waiting for me. I just have to find it.

* * *

><p><strong>Ram Underhill's POV<strong>

The key to life is enjoying it. What's the point of living if you don't have fun along the way? From what I've seen on TV of the Hunger Games, death doesn't look all that pleasant. So I try to live life as entertainingly as possible.

Too bad my brother doesn't see it that way.

"Relax Kelvin, none of us are going to get reaped," I say, as the five of us head to the square.

"And all over the district tons of kids are saying that to each other," Kelvin crosses his arms. "One of us has to be wrong."

I shake my head; there's no use arguing with my brother. Though we're twins, we're as different in looks as we are in personality. Kelvin's like the everlasting cloud of pessimism to my shining sun of no worries. Though he'd say he's the voice of reason to my crazy optimism.

"Well, if I am reaped, I'll be ready," Dex says, more to himself than any of us. He's a bit, how should I say, paranoid. After watching a particularly violent death in one of the Games involving a bout of acid rain, Dex has been training both his mind and his body so if he ever has to go into the arena, he'll be ready.

I don't really see the point though. I mean, the odds are extremely slim that one of us will get reaped, but even if we do, don't they give the tributes like, three days to prepare and train? You'll always have plenty of time to learn stuff then.

We lapse into silence, save the odd giggle or whisper from Marie and Rallon. I'll admit, it's been a bit weird having them around since they started dating a little while ago. I'm constantly having to pick up on signs that they want to be left alone, and we can't invite Marie to go somewhere if Rallon can't come. It's a bit confusing but at least they're happy.

We give the Peacekeepers our names and wave goodbye to Dex as he heads to the 17 year-olds section. I end up accidentally elbowing another 16 year-old as we attempt to squeeze into our designated section. The mayor is already up on stage, as well as the one victor District 3 has had in the past 36 years. I tune out the speech, since it's not terribly interesting and end up just basking in the warmth of the sun, wishing that the Reapings weren't today. It's so nice out, but instead of enjoying we're cramped in here with the rest of our District members.

I shake my blonde hair out of my eyes and wave to a few girls I recognise from school. They giggle and start talking amongst themselves causing me to smile and Kelvin to frown. We're 16, yet I seem to be the only one out of the two of us who have figured out the benefits of having girls around. For Kelvin, they just don't seem to compute into his computer-like brain.

The mayor finishes and our escort walks up onstage. At least, I think it's our escort. With the deep blue skin, the pointed ears and the prosthetic tail poking out of her skirt, she looks more like some sort of alien. I admire the Capitol for knowing how to really get the most out of life, but sometimes they go a little _too _far.

That's another point where me and my brother are polar opposites. He hates the idea of the Games and the Capitol for creating them. I think they know how to live. Don't get me wrong, I don't think the Hunger Games are at all good, but they're just seem so far away and unconnected to my life that I haven't thought much about them. Nobody I know well has ever gone into the Games and probably never will.

After the escort says a little introduction and talks about her new style, she finally moves on to the Reapings. I don't know how other districts do it, but here we always have the boys reaped first. She stands in front of the bowl and I wait for her to plunge her hand into it, but instead her tail flicks upwards and reaches into the bowl like it has a mind of its own. Gross. Seriously, how do they even make something like that in the Capitol?

The tail somehow manages to grasp one of the many slips of paper and brings it up for the escort to take. That thing is going to haunt me in my dreams tonight. She grabs the slip of paper and holds it out to read and just as I'm wondering how she goes to the bathroom with a giant tail sticking out of her butt, she calls out a name.

"Ram Underhill!"

My head is still filled with disturbing images of her rear end that it takes me a moment to realise whose name she called. Ram Underhill. Isn't that my name? I turn to my brother to see him staring at me in horror. Marie and Rallon are giving me equally terrified looks. My mouth drops open as I realise it really was my name she called.

For a moment I'm scared as I stare up at the stage. But really, everybody dies in the end. Sure, I might go before most people, but doesn't spending the last few days of my life in the most prosperous, fun place in Panem sort of make up for that? I figure I'd rather spend a week partying and eating great food and then dying over spending my whole life working only to die in the end anyways. This way I'll never have to get a job, never grow old and feeble _and _I won't have to hand in that report on terabytes that's due Monday.

My brother grabs my arm as though to comfort me, but I just shrug. All the thoughts my brain just came up with seem pretty plausible. So I give him a small smile and start heading over to the stage where the escort's waiting. She asks for volunteers and I see my brother take a small, hesitant step forwards before stopping. I know he would do practically anything for me, but when it comes to the Hunger Games family devotion only really goes so far. But I'm alright with that. Part of me is surprised that I am, but it's true.

The escort announces me as the District 3 male tribute of the 37th Hunger Games, sealing my fate and perhaps dooming me to die in the arena. But games are supposed to be fun, right? Spending my last moments playing the most famous game in history; I guess that's a fitting way for me to die. But I'm going to make sure I get the most out of my life before that happens.

* * *

><p><strong>Sparkie's POV<strong>

As soon as the mayor begins his speech, I whip out my book to continue reading. After all, it's the same thing each year and I'm _dying _to finish the book. After flipping through a few pages I finally find where I was and begin to read furiously.

_He takes his sword and thrusts it into the air, channelling the magic powers infused into the blade by the sorcerer who crafted it. Lighting strikes all around as he roars in triumph and shoots the magic and the dragon._

Something about introducing our escort.

_The dragon bellows, a sound so powerful it shakes the earth. But the enchantment of the sword is too much for it, and slowly the noise dies down as its massive body comes crashing to the ground._

Blah, blah, boy getting reaped.

_The knight approaches cautiously, still on guard in case the dragon is merely faking. However it makes no movement to attack and as the light of life fades from its eyes, the knight realises that it is truly dead._

"Sparkie Jesfer!"

_He lets out a cry of delight, but it isn't over yet. Running into the cave, he locates the captured princess who has fainted in the corner. Slowly his soothing voice rouses her from unconsciousness and as she looks into his kind blue eyes she realises-_

Wait, what?

I close my book and look around as the escort repeats the name. But it's impossible. I can't be reaped, I can't.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the Peacekeepers shoving their way through the crowd towards me, but I can't move. It's as though my entire body has shut down, has already died rather than wait until I'm in the Games.

"Please…" I whisper. "Someone volunteer…"

But no one hears, or if they do, they make no move to help me. Why would they? I'm standing in a crowd of 14 year-olds I have never talked to in my life, preferring to stay by myself and pretend I'm off on wild adventures. I feel someone grasp my arms and look up to see the Peacekeepers dragging me towards the stage. Towards my death. I make a weak attempt at struggling, but what's the point? I'm not strong and even if I could shake them off I'm an awful runner. I have no choice but to accept my fate.

They push towards the stage and I stumble, then slowly walk up the stairs, each step making me less and less certain that my legs will be able to hold me up the next time. But I make it to the spot next to the tall blonde-haired boy who I guess was also reaped. I stand there, trembling as the escort calls out for volunteers. I close my eyes and pray that when I next open them, there will be some brave girl standing in front of me, saying she's here to take my spot.

"No volunteers? Well then, ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District 3!"

Each word is like a sword stabbing me in the chest. I won't last a day in the arena; I'm not strong, or fast or big. I don't know how to fight. I remember bitterly how earlier today I was wishing my life would be more exciting. Well I guess I got my wish.

But then I think back to my book, to all the books I've ever read. Aren't most of them about a hero or heroine having to beat insurmountable odds? And that's certainly what I'm facing now: insurmountable odds. Does that make me like a character in a book?

The anthem plays and the Peacekeepers come back to drag us to the Justice Building to say our goodbyes. I don't fight this time, I'm too busy thinking, narrating a story to myself as if I was reading a book.

_Sparkie Jesfer was just an ordinary girl, until she was forced into an arena with 23 other bloodthirsty monsters, each who wanted the pleasure of tearing her apart. She has no fighting skills, no expertise with any weapon, but she did have one thing none of the other tributes had. Brains. Using her quick thinking and clever plans, she might just be able to outsmart them all and survive. If she won, people would treat her as a hero, and all the riches in the world would be hers. Others wanted the prize too, but none were as smart as Sparkie. When it came time to play the Games, she would be ready._

Sparkie smiled to herself. She didn't know how the story ended, not yet, but she had learnt long ago through years of devouring books that there was one common rule to all of them. The main character never dies

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><p><em><strong>I still need the District 8 and 11 boy, so please submit a tribute! Thanks guys!<strong>_


	5. District 4: Trained to Win

_**And now here's the District 4 reapings! I hope they turned out alright, I'll admit these ones were tougher to write than the others.**_

_**Unfortunately my break from school is coming to an end, so I won't be able to continue with these chapter a day things. I'm hoping to update every other day, but I'll have to wait and see what the work load is like.**_

_**The SYOT is officially closed, thanks to everyone who submitted a tribute! I think I was able to take one tribute that each person sent in to me, but if I missed yours I'm very sorry. The tributes were all awesome, it was really tough to pick which one I'd use. Thanks again to everyone!**_

_**And now we can get on with the reapings. These tributes were created by booksandmusic97 and mrslukecastellan!**_

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><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose's POV<strong>

It's still dark when I wake in the morning and I can tell by the soft breathing that can be heard throughout the house that I am the first one awake. I untangle myself from the mess of sheets and get out of bed only to step in a pool of something that looks disturbingly like blood.

_Not blood. Paint_, I realise as I stoop down to get a closer look. I look around and as my eyes adjust to the darkness I begin to make out the true extent of the mess in my room. All my supplies, bottles of paints, brushes, charcoal pieces, are strewn everywhere, as though some sort of wild animal ran through here. I'm confused for a second, but when my eyes land on a painting with a big hole in the middle as though someone had punched it (which I probably had), the memories of last night and why I was so angry come rushing back to me.

"Felicienne," I mutter angrily and clench my fists at the recollection of my older sister's visit last night. My 21 year-old sister has been married for a year, yet she still comes home to see us all occasionally. And her stays are never enjoyable. Felicienne is ruthless, a vicious woman who gets much enjoyment out of the emotional pain of others. A lot of people in our district wonder why she never volunteered for the Hunger Games.

The victim of her many insults last night was mainly my other sister Bettany. Ridden with grief over the death of her husband five months ago, she's come to live back at home so we could help her through this difficult time and care for her children while she mourned. Her condition's been improving greatly, but I worry that last night's argument with Felicienne may have brought her back to square one. Hence my anger and the destroyed art supplies.

With a sigh I begin to try and tidy up, salvaging what I can and throwing out what I cannot. Try as I might to be as quiet as possible, the fragile sheet hung from the ceiling to serve as a room divider does little to dull the noise and soon I see the bleary-eyed face of my twin sister Sandrine appear around the curtain.

"What are you doing up at this hour?" she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Here in District 4 a lot of people are early risers; such is the life of a fisherman. But my sister's never been able to drag herself out of bed before the sun comes up.

"Just cleaning up a bit," I reply. "Go back to sleep."

She nods and her head disappears behind the sheet again, into the section she and Bettany now share. Our parents were both injured in the same fishing accident that killed Bettany's husband, and their salaries have suffered for it. But I'm fine to live in a small house; I'm only really home to eat and sleep. We don't need a big fancy mansion to be happy.

Of course, my sister Felicienne is always quick to point out how much more well-off she is than our parents, and how she doesn't even have to work for it. She's married to the son of the owner of Kaizer Inc, an extremely huge, highly important fishing company in our district, something she never lets us forget.

The thought of Felicienne makes my whole body tense up like a tightly wound spring coiled with anger. But I can't start breaking my things again; I need to go to the place I should have gone to last night, somewhere I always go when I'm angry or frustrated.

I dress silently and creep out of the house, trying not to wake anyone else. A few hours at the training gym should give me more than enough time to relieve my stress, and I'll be back in time before anyone noticed I was gone. Shouldering my small bag of equipment, I set off into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade's POV<strong>

Those lazy, cowardly, good-for-nothing bunch of _weaklings_! I can't believe my eyes as I finish my jog to the training center and not _one _of them has shown up. All year I've been training one big group of fifteen year-olds who think they've got what it takes to volunteer this year. And on the day of the Reapings, the most _important _day of the year, they're lying around in their beds instead of being here at 3:30am like I told them to. Unbelievable.

_Obviously they're not ready for the arena_, I think, taking out my set of keys and unlocking the door to the gym. Which begs the question, who is? In my opinion, which as Head Trainer of the gym is the only one that matters, they were some of the best. There were a few eighteen year-olds who were pretty good, but they didn't look like they had to motivation or the readiness to kill that's necessary in the Games.

I ponder the possible candidates as I head over to the weapons shelf. Maybe it's my turn this year. I never volunteered in the past, owing to my two idiotic parents, but that's all taken care of now. So maybe I will go into the arena. It could be fun.

I smile to myself as I heft a double-bladed axe in my arms and then swing it into the air, aiming for the line of training dummies. It flies across the room, a deadly rotating circle, and makes a satisfying _whump!_ sound as it glides through the neck of each dummy. One, two, three… All the way up to the tenth before it hit the opposite wall of the gym and sticks there. Of course, the Games couldn't possibly be much of a challenge; I'd have to wait and see what my opponents would be like but even still I can't imagine any of them having the skills to best me.

I'm just reattaching the final dummy head when I hear the clatter of the door opening and one of eighteen year-olds I was thinking of earlier walks into the gym, hesitantly at first, as if he's not sure whether he's allowed to be here. I pause, trying to remember his name. Merrin, Derrin . . . Perrin? Yes, I think that was it.

"You're up early," I say, walking over to him. "Getting in some practice before you volunteer?"

"What? Oh no," he says, picking up a sword and expertly slicing the nearest training dummy to bits. "Just relieving some frustration."

"Ah." This could be interesting. I've always wanted to test my skills against someone who has some sort of anger on their side. I've always prided myself on maintaining a level head in whatever combat I do, but I've seen Games where weaker tributes have killed trained Careers just because they were in such a rage. Obviously Perrin doesn't seem out of control with fury, but it still might be interesting and hell, I'm bored anyways. There's only so much fun to be had in battling against inanimate objects. "Then let's see what you've got." I toss him a pair of sparing gloves and he catches them, glancing at me curiously. I put on my own pair and head towards the ring, beckoning him to join me.

"I don't know," he says slowly, taking his position opposite me.

"Don't worry, I'll try not to hurt you too badly," I say in a mock sympathetic tone.

A small smile appears on his face and he puts the gloves on. "Whenever you're ready."

"Ladies first."

He laughs this time, then goes into a ready stance. We shuffle around for a bit, and I duck as he throws a powerful left hook. He staggers forwards, off balance, and I kick him hard in the back, a blow that would have knocked most people to the ground. But he's quick too, and turns just in time to absorb the blow with his side, grabbing my foot and twisting so I fall.

But I'm not going to let myself get taken down that easily. As I fall I tuck my body in to do a somersault, wrenching my leg from his grasp as I go. I come up behind him and do a hard jab to the back of his head, dodging out of the way as he attempts another punch. Immediately following that he turns his whole body into doing a kick, catching me off guard and nailing me in the stomach. I throw a weak punch to give me time to get my breath back, then do another forward roll under his next kick and ending up near the edge of the ring by the table where the knives are kept. I smile; this gives me an idea.

* * *

><p><strong>Perrin's POV<strong>

She's fast, I'll give her that. And powerful. It's no wonder she's the Head Trainer at the gym. I've never seen her in battle, mostly just bossing a bunch of teenagers around as they attempt to train. But she's good.

I throw a kick and knock her off balance then tackle her before she can recover. We roll a bit then end up sprawling by the other end of the ring, me on top of her. I slam my hands down on her shoulders to keep her on the ground and grin. "Looks like I win."

"Not quite." She smiles back, then looks at her hand. I follow her gaze to find the sharp end of a knife aimed straight at my stomach. "Shall we call it a tie?"

"Sure." I get off her and reach down to help pull her up. She hesitates for a second, as though she's not exactly sure what to do, then shrugs and grabs it. I lift her to her feet and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. "But technically that was cheating."

"Well, you know the saying," she says, walking past me as some new kids begin to enter the building. "All's fair in love and war."

I watch her head over to the kids, shouting something about punctuality and then sending them off to start doing laps around the gym. I smile and decide to let them have some alone time with their instructor; I should probably be heading home anyways. Avoiding the running kids, who are looking positively terrified of their trainer, I slip out the door and head home.

My father and mother are already up when I enter, talking to each other and laughing as they cook breakfast. Or rather, my mother cooks breakfast. My father was injured in the same fishing accident that took his son in-law's life, and he's been paralysed from the waist down ever since. My mother got off better, but she still complains occasionally of chronic body pains.

"Ah, Perrin, good, you're back," my father says, needing no answer as to where I was. My bag of equipment and overall aura of sweatiness says it all. "Would you mind waking everyone else?"

I nod and head to my room, but my way is blocked by two small kids.

"Is mommy up?" asks Lirienne, my four year-old niece and Bettany's oldest daughter.

"Not yet Liri," I say. "Do you want to wake her up?"

"Yes!" she shouts, and her older brother Therron nods, his red curls bouncing along with the movement. Though the eldest of three, he tends to let Liri do all the talking. And boy does she love it.

I put my finger to my lips and slowly open the door. The three of us creep over to where Bettany and Sandrine sleep. I hold my fingers up and count down. Three, two, one…

The room explodes into noise as Liri and Therron leap on their mother, shouting for her to wake up. Sandrine jumps and falls out of bed onto the floor, where I grin at her from my position on the corner of her bed. "Rise and shine."

Bettany sits up in bed, her kids clinging to her. "What's going on?" she asks.

"You slept too long!" Liri shouts in her ear and she winces, but gives her a hug all the same. It's moments like this that I find it hardest to remember that my sister is so fragile, with her flowing red hair, her bright blue eyes crinkled up as she laughs with her children. It's hard to believe that this is the woman who spends each night crying herself to sleep, who frequently gets so caught up in grief that she doesn't register anything happening around her.

"Alright, come on guys. Let's give them some privacy," I say, herding the younger kids out of the room and back towards the kitchen. We're just settling down for breakfast when Sandrine and Bettany appear, fully dressed and with Bettany carrying two year-old Aveline, her third child. We all attempt to crowd around the small table, eating a quick breakfast of oatmeal before getting ready to head to the Reapings. It's mine and Sandrine's last year of eligibility, and though I'm not worried I know she'll be glad when it's done.

On our way to the square Damien O'Connor joins us. He and Sandrine have been dating for years, but only he, my sister and I are aware that it's escalated to anything beyond a boyfriend and girlfriend relationship. Sandrine came to me about a week ago with the news; she's pregnant.

I was ecstatic when I heard and at first couldn't see her reasoning to keep it a secret. She's always had this idea for the longest time that the Reapings are rigged; the Capitol purposefully making it so that Victor's children or interesting tributes that will hook the audiences will go into the Games. I never believed in that sort of thing, but it was her news to tell, so I agreed that today, after the ceremony when the two of us were both safely back at home, we would share everything with everyone. All we had to do was to get through today.

The two of us wave goodbye to our families and head to the 18 year-olds section. I catch a glimpse of Meredith, the trainer from the gym, but don't get a chance to say anything as we're overwhelmed by our friends. Coral, Finn, Dune, Marina; all sorts of people we fish with or talk to. I don't have any "best" friends, by I'm on good terms with numerous people in the district. We talk for a bit about anything new in people's lives before the Peacekeepers glare at us to keep it down and listen to the speech being made on stage.

Once it's over our escort makes his way proudly up the steps and attempts to give a large wave while still managing to keep a grip on the loaf of bread and handful of shrimp he holds. I hear that in the Capitol a well-rounded stomach is frowned upon, and people try their hardest to look slim, but our escort boasts his large belly proudly. He loves to eat, and even as he stands on stage I can barely understand the words he's saying through his mouthful of food he's munching on.

"Mmello Dishtrict shmore! I ghoop moore teddy nor fe Meepings!" He cries out, food flying from his mouth in disgusting chunks. He must understand from the blank stares he's getting that no one can understand a word her says, because he ends up just pointing to his hand and then the girl's reaping bowl.

He digs around for a while before grabbing a slip and extracting his hand. I've always wondered which year his hand will finally get stuck in the bowl and they'll have to somehow cut the it off of his arm. At first I told myself it was a silly idea, but every year the possibility seems to grow more and more likely. Still, it doesn't appear that this will be that year, as he's already got his hand out fine before opening the slip of paper and reading the name written on it.

"Fandree Shmelose!"

More blank stares greet him; everyone knows that there's absolutely no one in the district with that name. This mispronounciation happens _every_ year; you'd think he'd learn not to eat while on the job at some point. But no, one of the past District 4 victors still has to tap him on the shoulder and whisper something in his ear to remind him that he's completely incomprehensible. He nods and then swallows before repeating the name.

"Sandrine Bellerose!

Any earlier annoyance at his eating habits vanishes as he repeats the words, my heart stopping mid-best. _It can't be… they can't have_. I slowly turn to my sister in fear, hoping, _praying_ I was just hearing things, that it wasn't really her name called. But her expression and that of Damien's, who's grasping her hand so tightly it seems as though he thinks he can somehow keep her there just by force of will say otherwise. I continue to stare in disbelief and worry at my sister until she also turns, our gazes meeting. And seeing her normally cheerful eyes so full of fear and terror just snaps something within me.

"I volunteer!" I bellow, running forwards from the crowd and up onto the stage before Sandrine can even take a step. "I volunteer!"

The escort looks disapprovingly down at me. "Young man," he says, his mouth thankfully still clear of food. "You can't volunteer for a _girl_. Only a _girl _can."

"So what!" I shout back at him, refusing to believe that there is nothing I can do to save my sister. "You need one girl and one boy! Let me go and pick someone else!"

The escort opens his mouth to argue but another voice speaks up first. "Whoa there. Relax boy, I'll be volunteering." I turn my head to see Meredith stepping confidently from the 18 year-olds section and climbing the steps to the stage.

"Oh, good," the escort says with a pointed look in my direction. "A _girl_. And what would your name be?"

"Meredith Blade," she answers curtly, before stepping up to the stage beside me.

"Thanks," I whisper under my breath to her, and she nods in response. I walk past her to head back down the stage, feeling a hundred times lighter at the thought that my sister is safe, but then the escort shouts, "Well, I guess we have our tributes then! Let's give them a hand!"

What? But I was only volunteering for Sandrine! She was safe, I didn't need to be here. They could reap another boy! There are a few annoyed mutterings from kids who might have been planning on volunteering this year, but the only sound I hear is a shout from the crowd, a long painful cry that could only be my sister calling to me. I have to reach her, I can't go into the Games.

Two Peacekeepers grab me by the arms, leading me towards the Justice Building to say my final goodbyes. But I can't let them take me, I will _not _go into the arena. I have to stay home, and help my sister tell my family the good news, and take care of my other sister's kids while she slowly recovers and just live my life in Four as a normal teenager, untouched by the Games. At that thought, I feel a surge of aanger and power course through me and without thinking, I bring my arm back and yank it out of the first Peacekeepers grip. He lets go, either not expecting that I was so strong or that I would resist, but I don't bother to ponder why. Instead, I whip my arm around and punch the other man holding me in the jaw. He shouts and stumbles back and suddenly I'm free from their grip; I turn, ready to run back home, knowing that I won't be going into the Games. I have to stay with my family and Sandrine, I-

I hear the crackle of electricity behind me and suddenly something painful jolts up my body, sending it into uncontrollable spasms. I curse myself for forgetting the other Peacekeeper and try to turn around and tackle him, but I can already feel myself blacking out. My mind whirs frantically, trying to keep myself awake, knowing that if I go unconscious there won't be any hope for getting back to my family. But I can't fight it; the white-hot pain is still searing through me and I can't control my body's continuing spasms as I sink to my knees, vision slowly going black. The last thought that comes to mind before I completely pass out is the terrible knowledge that once I awaken, I'll be miles away from my family, my sister, my home and my district. And I'll be going to fight to my death.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith's POV<strong>

They hurry me away as soon as Perrin starts fighting back, as if they're worried I might get any ideas. Yeah, right. I volunteered for these Games and I'm coming home a winner.

Odd, I'm still not entirely sure _why _I volunteered. Eternal glory, of course, and to finally have some worthy opponents to fight against. But was there something more? No, I'm sure it couldn't have been anything else. Just the desire to face the ultimate challenge. How difficult that challenge will prove to be though, is still unknown as of yet. If the others are anything like Perrin though, well, there's hope that this batch of tributes won't be complete weaklings.

They escort me to a room in our Justice Building and leave, but I know they'll be back soon. I don't have anyone to say goodbye to. People are meant to be controlled, to be manipulated and used; not to be befriended. And of course, my parents died last year, supposedly of a "drug overdose."

Actually, today is the anniversary of their death. Exactly one year ago, I wanted to volunteer for the Games but they wouldn't let me, thinking it was "too dangerous" for their precious little Meredith. They even went so far as to pay some eighteen year-old kid to hold me back if I tried to make a run for the stage. I was furious that day, the one time I didn't keep my level head. And when we got home I decided to make something I'd been planning for years a reality.

It's a curious thing, the poison in sea creatures. The Capitol is always so strict about people possessing any sort of thing that could be dangerous in fear of another rebellion starting, but we fishermen of District 4 catch poisonous things all the time and nobody could care less. All I had to do was catch a blowfish (buying one would look extremely suspicious), extract the poison gland and slip a few drops into my parents' fruit salad that night. I'd been planning it for a long time; my parents were idiots and the world was better off without them. At least, I certainly am. Now I have their big house, their fortune and I'm free to do as I please. I wasn't even caught for it; who would blame a poor, mourning girl? Better to just tell her and the rest of the citizens that they died of "drug overdose" and try and catch the killer on the sly. They still haven't.

I often wonder if my extremely permanent solution was to a temporary problem. Perhaps they would have gotten smarter, or at least less overbearing. Or once I was eighteen, I could have moved out and made my own life in the district. But my plan had been oh so satisfying to carry out, I'm sure it was worth it.

So it appears I have yet another advantage over all those tributes going into the Games. I have already killed, and I will do it again with ease. While all these tributes have been training with practice dummies, if at all, I've had the real life experience. I guess these Games won't be much of a competition at all. I sigh as the Peacekeepers return, having confirmed that no one was coming for me.

Well, at least they should be fun.


	6. District 5: Heroics and Hurt

_**I'm sorry for the wait to update guys. But I hope the huge length of this chapter makes up for it. I think it just might be the longest reapings yet. Oh and sorry about the reviewing issues with that last chapter. That was my fault, I deleted the tribute form because I don't need it anymore, making the newest chapter chapter 5 which you've already reviewed. But it should be fixed this time around!**_

_**So because of the school load and everything it looks like I'm only going to be able to update 3 times a week, though I'll try and do more if I can. But 3 times a week is all I can promise you. I'm really sorry guys!**_

_**Oh, and if any of you feel the Reapings are getting repetitive, don't hesitate to let me know. I'm worried I might be boring you guys if they're all set up the same way, so I promise I'll try and come up with more creative ways to do them in further chapters.**_

_**So without further ado, these tributes were brought to you by Soundhawk and Patricia!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Bree Hudson's POV<strong>

The day of the Reapings is a scary and nerve-wracking time for many in the district. But for my brother and I, it also brings a small sense of safety. This is the day where my mother does not need to get up early to prepare for work, a day where she enjoys sleeping in as long as she can, offering my brother and I some respite. We still wake up at the usual time, but without the presence of our mother we can spend a little more time in our house than we allow during the usual rush to get out as fast as possible. When we hear the signs that our mother is stirring, we get up quickly and leave, knowing that she doesn't care where we are as long as we're back in time for the ceremony.

"So where should we go?" my 13 year-old brother Webb asks.

"How about to the square?" I say. Sometimes the owners of the surrounding shops are feeling sorry enough for those of us with a chance to get reaped that they'll give out some of their food for free, or at least for a lower price. And if not, the square's always beautiful to look at on Reaping day.

He nods and we set off in that direction, passing groups of kids as we go. For most children in our district, today is a break from school, a chance to hang out with friends and perhaps confide in each other one's fears of getting reaped. But this is yet another aspect of the reapings that separates most kids from the two of us. My brother and I aren't antisocial per se, but with past experiences of seeing how horrible people can be, we figure we're better off alone. After all, we'll always have each other.

It turns out that my suggestion to head to the square was a big mistake; as we enter the area, dodging Peacekeepers setting up for the big event, we notice one of the most hated kids in the district. Basil Billions, only son of Balthazar Billions, the mayor of District 5. A more ruthless, power-hungry, sadistic man has never walked the earth, though my brother and I have a personal grudge against him. Two years ago, he sentenced our father to death for the crime of theft. He had only been trying to help a close friend of his, who was on his death bed because of a serious illness. Unfortunately neither of our families had been able to afford any medicine that could help, so my father had no choice but to take a less honourable route. The shooting had been carried out by ten Peacekeepers. Ten. One would think that only a single bullet to the head was necessary to kill a man. But Mayor Billions seemed to get some sort of sick pleasure from watching bullet after bullet tear through his flesh, blood splattering about the square and staining for months.

Needless to say, my brother and I have never forgiven the mayor, or any family of his. However, I'm not as prone to openly showing my hostilities as Webb, something that may very well get him killed some day.

Noticing the tightening of his fists, I drag him away before he does anything stupid. Picking a fight with the mayor's son when there are so many Peacekeepers around is not a smart idea unless you have a death wish. Instead we chat up Mrs Rosenbloom, who's setting up her bakery's outside display for the day. We barely know her, but that doesn't stop us from accepting the free roll she gives us at the end as we say our goodbyes. Her son was reaped last year and brutally murdered in the bloodbath, something that I guess makes her sympathetic to all those still eligible.

A glance at the clock sitting atop the Justice Building tells us that we should be heading home soon, so we turn around and start to leave. As we're exiting the square we see the mayor coming out of his big mansion and both Webb and I stiffen as he passes us to get to his son.

"Why so down Basil?" he asks, throwing an arm around his son, who admittedly doesn't look at all happy. "Today's supposed to be a celebration! Besides, it's not like you've got any chance of being reaped!" he continues, before leaving to greet the escort who's just entered the square on the opposite side of us. I shake my head in disgust at Mayor Billions's obvious enjoyment in the Hunger Games and continue on my way before I realise that Webb hasn't moved from his spot.

"It's a shame," he says, loud enough for Basil to overhear. "You'd fit right in with all the other blood-thirsty monsters that are competing."

I cringe inwardly, glancing around to see if any Peacekeepers overheard. But they all seem busy with setting up, and Basil doesn't call any attention to it, merely blushing a furious shade of red.

"Hey, leave him alone." A kid who I didn't notice before steps forwards between Basil and my brother, someone who I recognise at once. Lore Fury. Most people now only seem to know him due to the infamy of his longer brother, Clay, but I still remember his one, heroic act that caused him to be so famous for a few days.

It was a particularly cold spring day. One of the families in the poorer part of our district was trying to keep warm by starting a fire in their house. Only they didn't have an actual fire place. Their entire home was eventually eaten by the flames and began jumping to other houses. Most of the adults were off working in the labs where we genetically engineer mutts for the Capitol, but did the mayor call any of them or any Peacekeepers in to help put out the fire. Of course not. He figured it was the family's own fault and that that part of the district didn't have anyone important in it, so he decided to wait until it looked like it was threatening richer parts of the district to take action.

I remember the acrid smell of smoke sneaking its way into our house, even though we didn't live anywhere close to the original source of the fire. We wandered out of the house to see what was going on and watched the looming, roiling black cloud of smoke smothering the sky, felt the ash on our faces as the wind blew it towards our part of town. Someone had rushed by me and I'd just gotten a glimpse of a slender boy with dark hair running by before he turned a corner and was out of sight.

Well, that was Lore Fury. My brother and I heard the news later that he had apparently saved a little girl in one of the homes from dying in the fire. I was always curious to find out more about this strange boy, but after the fire he just seemed to sort of fade in to the background, and of course once I found out that his brother was one of the biggest bullies in the district I ended staying far away from him.

He stands a few feet in front of me now, steadily meeting the glare my brother is sending. Oddly enough, he doesn't make any further move to start some sort of fight. Perhaps he's less like his brother than I give him credit for.

"Come on, let's go," I say softly, but firmly, putting my hand on my brother's shoulder and turning him away from the two boys. There's enough violence and fights at home; we don't need to start some here too. Webb doesn't fight back, merely shooting one more glare at the mayor's son before turning and following me. I look back too, though there is no hostility in my stare, merely curiosity about the odd behaviour of Lore. He meets my gaze and I look away, pulling my brother steadily towards our home.

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury's POV<strong>

I watch the girl and who I assume to be her brother, go. The resemblance is there; sandy blonde hair, shocking blue eyes, same sort of defiance that seems to be present in both of them. I can't say I recognise them though.

"Know them?" I ask, turning back to my best friend Basil. He's still a bit red and I'm wondering how he could possibly have had any sort of interaction with the two kids previously. A "bloodthirsty monster" he'd called him. Well I don't know who that boy was, but he couldn't have been more wrong about my friend. Quiet and shy, Basil is often the voice of reason in our little group of friends. He's never expressed any sort of interest in violence at all, something people assume for me because of Clay.

"M-maybe. I think it was their dad who was . . ." Basil swallows. "Um, shot for theft."

The memories of the very gruesome, very public shooting from two years ago come back to me. I repress the urge to shudder.

Poor Basil. People always seem to have these preconceived ideas of him because of his dad but if anything, he's the exact opposite.

"Well they definitely nailed your personality," I say sarcastically. "Weird how two random kids know you so much better than guys who have been your friends for years."

Basil gives me a grateful smile and at that moment we hear shouts announcing the arrival of our other two friends. Remus and Romulus Jones have been friends with Basil and me for as long as I can remember, and a pair of more mischievous, troublesome twins could not be found. I unfortunately get dragged into their hair-brained schemes an awful lot, sometimes ending up with catastrophic results. But they're my friends, no matter what.

"What's up guys?" I ask as they near us, the huge grins on their faces indicating they're up to something.

"We've just found the _best _opportunity of our lives!" Remus says gleefully. "You two should be glad we waited to share with you."

"Do we really want to know?" I send Basil a knowing look and he smiles. You have to be careful with the twins; half the time their "opportunities" turn into some sort of fiasco.

"Of course you do!" Romulus shouts, as if he couldn't possibly believe that we aren't showing more interest. "Okay, so you know how it's Reaping Day, right?"

"No, really?" I roll my eyes, feeling Basil stiffen beside me. Even though his dad was right earlier about him having next to no chance getting reaped, he's still nervous about it. After a childhood accident left him blind in one eye, he knows that if he went into the Hunger Games he wouldn't stand a chance.

"Yeah, well you know Janet Taylor?"

"The one who's sister was reaped two years ago?"

"Yeah, well, she and a big group of her friends are near the school and she's bawling her eyes out! Terrified she's going to get reaped! Now wouldn't it be an excellent opportunity for some nice, _caring_ guy to go over there and comfort her?"

"Or guys," Remus adds, his grin widening.

"You two are awful, you know that right?" I say, shaking my head. "Taking advantage of people on a day like today? Really?"

"Aw come on. We're just trying to put a positive spin on today instead of moping around like everyone else. Besides, Cyra's gonna be there," Romulus adds, elbowing me. Cyra Jenome is a girl in my class at school who I may or may not have had a tiny crush on.

In an attempt to distract from the red now colouring my cheeks, I turn to Basil. "What do you think?"

"You guys go ahead. I think I'll stay behind," he says. Of course, he's much too nervous to be comforting anyone else today. And besides, he never lets himself get dragged into Remus and Romulus's crazy plans. But instead of listening to him and staying put like I should, I allow the twins to drag me off, promising we'll meet up again before the ceremony starts. He waves goodbye, smiling because he knows that nothing but trouble is going to come of this, as always.

It's a short walk to the school and soon I can see the group of girls Remus and Romulus were talking about and from the sounds of it, more than one has broken down into tears. The brothers eagerly dive into the fray, arms wrapping around the sobbing girls with whispers of "don't worry" and "it'll be alright." I roll my eyes again at the apparent lack of morality the two have and turn around to come face to face with Cyra Jenome.

"Oh, hey," I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Hey Lore," she says. The two of us stand in awkward silence for a bit and I see Remus give me a thumbs up with the arm that's not wrapped around a crying Janet Taylor.

"So, you nervous too?" I ask, gesturing to the rest of the girls.

"Not really. I mean, what are the odds, right?"

"Yeah. It's like, one in a million."

She laughs. "Well, I wouldn't say a _million_ exactly." Her face darkens. "Maybe I should be a bit worried."

"Oh, nah," I say, knowing that both of the twins would jump on this opportunity to get close and "comfort" Cyra. If only I could think of what to say. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Mm," she says, looking over my shoulder as if she's distracted by something else. "Isn't that you're brother?"

"Huh?" I follow her gaze and can just make out three figures at the top of the hill, one significantly bigger than the other. Clay. Of course he would have to pick _now _to show up. He and I were going to have some serious words when we got home. "Yeah, uh, I'd better go." I turn regretfully away from Cyra and start heading up the hill, cursing the day my brother was born. "See you at the reapings!" I call back to her. She shouts something back but I can't hear; at this point I'm too far off.

The scene that greets me at the peak of the hill is not a happy one. Two skinny kids, most likely from the poor part of the district, are cowering in the face of a much bigger boy who has his fists raised and looks prepared to use them. That of course, would be my brother.

"Come on," I say, grabbing his arm before he has time to swing it at the unprotected kids and dragging him towards home. "Idiot," I mutter under my breath. I can't believe my brother's impeccable timing. Just show up when I finally get to have the conversation I've been waiting ages to have and start beating up little kids. That'll give Cyra a _great_ impression of me.

"Hey," Clay says angrily, wrenching his arm from my grasp. "I was busy!"

"Yeah, well so was I," I grumble.

"Those kids were insulting me behind my back. No one gets away with that and lives."

"Insulting you, the mere embodiment of perfection? Gee, who'd have thought?"

"Well someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. What the heck were you doing that was so darn important?"

"None of your business."

Slowly a wide grin begins to grow on my younger brother's face as it dawns on him. "You were with Cyra weren't you?"

"Shut up."

"Lore and Cyra sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S . . ."

I smack him on the arm but it does little to silence my brother as he begins an annoying little dance around me to go with his stupid chant. I swear, one of these days I'm going to deck him. _Hard_.

* * *

><p><strong>Bree's POV<strong>

We return to the house to find our mother already up and about, getting prepared for today's reapings. She doesn't say a word as we enter, which I take as a good sign, and we head to our separate rooms to get prepared for the Reapings. I pull my only dress out of my dresser and put it on, not bothering to check myself in the mirror before I go. I realise my mistake afterwards when I walk back into the main room and my mother stares at me.

"I thought I told you to fix that hole!" she hisses at me. I look down to see the gaping tear in the bottom of my dress, something my mother told me she'd fix. Obviously she's forgotten.

I barely register the flick of my mother's hand, but the sting I feel from her slap is all I need. She wasn't always like this, but after our father was killed she, how should I say, took a turn for the worse.

"Well?" she says furiously, her face inches from mine. "Answer me!"

I'm saved by the tolling of the clock in the square that lets all the residents of District 5 know it's time for the reapings. My mother looks away, distracted and I slip out from in front of her and head out the door, pausing only to let my brother catch up before we retrace our steps back to the square. I know our mother is following close behind but she doesn't say another word as we give our names to the Peacekeepers and they direct us to our appropriate sections, separating my brother and me as I'm grouped in with all the other fourteen year-olds.

Our escort walks up on stage, a surprisingly unassuming woman considering she's from the Capitol. Everything about her, from her straight, shoulder length brown hair to her dull gray eyes is utterly forgettable, which may be the reason her name escapes me at the moment. She wastes no time with trivial introductions, instead heading right over to the girls bowl. I find myself fiddling unconsciously with the one strand of hair that I can never manage to pull back into my ponytail with the rest of my hair. I'm a little nervous, I won't lie, though I have less reason to be than most. I only had to take tessera one year when we were worse off, but never again since then. So I have nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing to worry about . . .

"Bree Hudson!"

Oh no. Please no. I try to fool myself into thinking I heard wrong, that the voice that called my name was nothing more than a mere figment of my imagination, brought on by nerves. But there was no mistaking the escort's crisp, clear voice. My name. She called my name.

Trembling, I slowly separate myself from the crowd and walk up to the stage, knowing as I do that there won't be any volunteers. I'll be going into the Games. I stop, on the verge of tears, but after a deep, shuddering breath I calm myself. _It's going to be alright Bree_, I think to myself. It's not a lie; I just have to make sure it comes true. Because as I stand on that stage and though there are hundreds in the crowd staring back at me, I manage to pick out my brother's face, staring up at me in shock, I know that this will not be the last day I see him again. I can't leave him alone; he needs me, and though I try to be independent, I know that I need him too. I will win these Games and make it home alive. I have too.

* * *

><p><strong>Lore's POV<strong>

I watch the girl from before take to the stage. Bree Hudson, I guess I can call her now. She stares determinedly back at the crowd as though she's already decided to win the Games and come back home. Which, come to think of it, she probably has. From what I've seen of the Reapings, there seems to be two typical reactions for our district. Bawling your eyes out and refusing to believe you're going into the Games, or accepting it and resolving to win.

Of course, my brother is in an entirely different category, more commonly found in the Career districts. I don't know which was worse; his teasing about Cyra and me (because there's absolutely _nothing_ going on with us) or listening to him brag about how he's going to volunteer for the Games this year. And of course my dad's not helping, encouraging him and boasting to anyone who listens about how Clay could actually win the Games. He hasn't had any training, unless you count beating up defenceless kids at school. He's never used any sort of weapon in his entire life. Oh, and did I forget to mention, he's _thirteen_.

But does anyone ever listen to me? Of course not.

Basil involuntarily grabs my arm as our escort, fittingly named Blandi, finishes announcing Bree and heads to the other glass bowl.

"It's not going to be you," I whisper soothingly under my breath. "Don't worry, there's not a chance that any of us-"

"Lore Fury!"

Come again?

Basil turns to me, what little colour left in his face fleeing immediately as the full force of the escort's words hits me. Lore Fury. That's me.

I'm going into the Hunger Games.

I'm ashamed when I realise that my first conscious thought is that I'll be fine, my brother wants to volunteer. He wants the glory, not me. All I ever wanted was a normal life with my friends. But I push the selfish thought away; I can't let my younger brother go into the Games, even if the idiot thinks he wants to.

Basil isn't the only one staring; Remus and Romulus are both gaping at me from their positions in front of us. I can't let anyone know how scared I am, I have to pretend I'm fine with going to my certain death. For the first time in my life, I need to take a leaf out of my brother's book.

So instead of collapsing and sobbing like I feel like doing, I give them a cheery wink and pat them on the back as I walk past them. "Come on guys, it's not so bad," I say, as I head out of the fifteen year-old section. I don't turn back to see their expressions, knowing for sure that they would break me down. So instead I keep my eyes on the stage, taking my position carefully next to Bree. She's looking at me, but not with pity like everyone else. I guess it's hard to pity someone when you both share the same fate. But her gaze isn't hostile either, like her brother's was earlier this morning. She just seems . . . curious. And slightly surprised that of all people to be her district partner, it had to be me.

I look out into the sea of faces in front of me. Basil, still pale and horrified; Remus and Romulus, trying to grin, fooled by my wall of optimism; my father, elbowing someone and probably bragging how that's his son on stage; and my brother, giving me a thumbs up of all things and I can tell he's thinking about how great it'll be if we both win the Games two years in a row. No, not if, Clay doesn't think in if. When we both win the Games two years in a row. I guess I'll have to start thinking more like him then. Because as I said before, there are two types of people who are reaped. Those who break down and those who accept their fate and fight to win. And as bad as I feel inside right now, one thing's for sure. I am not going to be that first type.


	7. District 6: Real Friends and Fake Ones

_**Whew, sorry guys, this is one heck of a long chapter! I guess I got a bit carried away... well hopefully I won't ramble as much next time. Again, sorry about that!**_

_**Once again, I'd just like to advertise Tears of Blood, written by 24 different authors of the Hunger Games fandom. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I write for the District 9 male. Please check it out, it's amazing, and not because I write for it :) Feel free to help reach the goal of 1000 reviews! We'd all much appreciate it. Thanks so much guys!**_

_**Anyways, you can thank Theonechance and Basketball23 for these tributes!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hickin's POV<strong>

The stick traces through the dirt, bringing an image to life in the hard packed soil. Big, bright eyes, wide smile, long blonde hair, though no one could tell by looking at the colourless picture. But her vibrant, colourful appearance still swam before my eyes, leaving no doubt as to what the girl looked like in real life.

"You shouldn't be doing that you know," Zephyr said, looking distastefully at my drawing in the dirt. "Mother told you to forget all about her."

I nod absentmindedly, the echoes of my mother's shouts still reverberating around in my head. "I can't help it," I tell Zephyr. "She's so . . . different."

Since the day I was born, I have been confined to the small wooden shack my family calls home. According to my mother, terrifying danger waits for me just outside that door in the form of a dreaded event called The Hunger Games. If anyone were ever to know of my existence, there would be a chance that I would be "reaped" as they call it, and I would then die a horrible death.

I shiver involuntarily and quickly rub out the image of the girl. Mother is right, I can't take the risk of ever trying to see into the outside world again. Why should I, when I have everything I could ever want right here?

"There," Zephyr says softly, watching me scrape away the last remnants of the girl's likeness on the floor. "Isn't that better?"

"Yes," I say. "You're right, I shouldn't even think about her. Let's to something to distract me." I look over at him and smile slightly. "I found the neatest thing yesterday, you won't believe your eyes when you-"

"Taralo?"

A new voice floats across the room, a firm, slightly nervous sounding voice. My mother. She stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable as she always does when she comes across me talking to Zephyr. To my mother and father, Zephyr is invisible, but I've never had a realer friend than him. I've stopped seeing him as much now that I'm older, for I know it upsets Mother, though today I'll need his guidance and help more than any other day. This is the day she always warns me about, the day were children around the country are all being sentenced to their deaths. And considering what happened a mere two nights ago, I'm even more scared than normal.

"Who are you talking to son?" She asks, though as always she knows the answer.

"Zephyr," I say simply and my mother bites his lip. I believe she still thinks I have some sort of sickness, a notion she's been toying with for years. Like everyone else in our district, at least, so I'm told, she works with many viruses and diseases, attempting to find cures for each new one she stumbles across. Personally I don't believe I'm ill in any way, but since it upsets my mother I try to pretend that the medicine she gives me is working and stop acknowledging Zephyr when she's around.

"What have I told you about doing that?" She snaps, harsher than she meant to. I hang my head in apology as my father walks in to calm her.

"There, there Mina," he says, patting her. "Each person has their own way of dealing with what is to come today."

At the implication of the reapings, my mother stiffens, looking over her shoulder as if worried someone is in the house. But of course, no one ever is. All my life I could never believe it when my mother said that there was a whole district full of people out there. My entire world consists of this small wooden house, and the only people who populate it are me, my father, my mother and Zephyr. At least that was all until two days ago. . .

Perhaps my mother is thinking of the same thing because at that moment she begins her lecture. "Now while we're gone, I don't want you going _near_ the outside at all."

"Yes, mother."

"You must stay at least five feet away from the windows at all times."

"Yes, mother."

"And don't even think about touching the curtains!"

"He'll be fine, dear," my father whispers soothingly, though I can tell he himself is also a little nervous. "Now it's time for us to head out."

My mother takes a breath to collect herself than nods and swiftly walks out of my room. My father follows her, but not before he gives me a quick smile. "We'll be back in a bit, alright?" He gives me a small wink then hurries off after my mother. I hear the front door creak open and seconds later shut tight with a snap. And just like that, I'm alone in the house.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street's POV<strong>

Every year on this day, my schedule is the same. Sleep in, get up, meet my best friend Dhara and play around for a bit before heading back home and getting dressed for the reapings while praying my brothers don't get picked. But this year, it's different. For the first time in my life, I have become of eligible reaping age and upon entering the square I will be ushered into the group of other terrified twelve year-olds instead of standing in the safe crowd of those too old or young to be in any danger.

My brother Arc greets me as I stumble out of my room and into the small kitchen. Despite the fact that everyone has today off, my parents still wanted to go into the lab today and check to see if their experiment is working. My other brother, Beaux, is probably already at his girlfriend's house, celebrating their last year of eligibility together.

"Dhara came by," he says, offering me a piece of bead filled with seeds. "Said she'd meet you at the square."

I nod, slightly worried of what I might find when I get to the square. Dhara has five younger brothers and sisters, as well as a father who lost his arm when he reacted badly to some chemicals he'd been testing. At least my name will only be in there once; Dhara has seven slips already. Will she be mad at me for being so much safer, or in despair at the thought of what could potentially happen?

Either way, I have to be there to support her. Dhara's like my sister, and I would do absolutely anything for her. Saying a quick goodbye to my brother and promising to be back before the reapings, I head out the door in search of my friend.

It doesn't take long; the square is barely a ten minute walk from our house and soon the small, thin figure of my friend comes into view. She's watching the Peacekeepers setting up for the reapings, placing the stand for the microphone while two others heave the glass bowls of names onto the stage.

"One slip of paper," Dhara whispers, and I turn to her, wondering what she means. "One slip of paper . . . that's all they need to determine whether or not you'll live. One slip of paper."

For lack of anything better to do, I wrap my arms around her, trying to put all my thoughts and feelings into a comforting squeeze. Dhara holds me too, but not in a friendly hug sort of way; more as if she was dangling above a large cliff and I was the only thing there to keep her from falling.

"I'm sorry," she says as we finally separate. "I'm just so worried."

"It'll be fine," I say reassuringly. Of course I have no way of knowing but what else could I tell her? "We're only twelve, there are tons of people with loads more names in there then we could ever think of getting." Though I realise, sure we're twelve now, we're pretty safe. But the entries are cumulative. Next year Dhara will have 14, then 21 all the way up to 49 slips of paper when she's eighteen. The odds are never going to be in her favour.

It makes me question my earlier thought. _Dhara's like my sister, and I would do absolutely anything for her_. The first part is 100% true, but is the second? If it came down to it, and Dhara was reaped for the Hunger Games, would I volunteer? The good friend response would be yes. But with the reapings looming so close over us, I'm beginning to question whether I'd have the courage.

"Well, let's go do something fun," Dhara says, drying her eyes on her sleeve and giving me a weak smile. "We've got a few hours."

I nod and together we turn away from the square, talking and laughing as we head away from the possibility of the Hunger Games. _We're only twelve_, I think. We're about the safest you can get. Hopefully the unthinkable will never happen, but if it does, it only makes sense that'll it'll happen when we're older. I have years to think about the impossible question; years to finally come up with an answer. For now, we're young, and we should enjoy it while we can.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo's POV<strong>

As soon as my parents leave, Zephyr comes back, grumbling about how I make him leave when they're around. I ignore his complaints and instead run over to my bed where my hidden treasure awaits. Scrambling onto my belly, I slide a hand under the wooden frame and pull out the fragile glass jar concealed beneath it. I hear Zephyr peter off as he comes over to look at what I've got, but I'm too entranced by the creature in the jar to notice.

Delicately unfolding it's pearl white wings, the moth twitches it's long, slender antenna, wondering what the disturbance was all about. It flutters around in the jar once, twice, before I open the top and let it fly gracefully out, flitting through the air as though it is merely a breeze in the air, rather than a living, breathing creature.

"Well, it sure is something," Zephyr says, watching it soar through the air. "Where'd you find it?"

"In the trunk," I say, pointing to the small box where I keep my meagre amount of belongings. "I don't know how it got in, but last night when I opened it up it just flew out."

I watch it as it circles the room, observing everything, before finally flying behind the curtains to check out the window. I wait for it to return, but as the seconds turn into minutes and it doesn't come out, I begin to worry. What if it got stuck? I look at Zephyr to find him staring back at me.

"Don't even think about it," he starts immediately. "You're not supposed to go near the window!"

"But what if it needs help?" I say, getting up from my position on the floor. "I have to make sure it's alright."

I stand and slowly begin walking over to the window, feeling as if the eyes of everyone in the world are on me. Zephyr shouts and tries to grab me and stop me from going, but of course nothing he can do can restrain me. It's getting closer now – ten steps away – the maroon curtains hanging on the rod looking more sturdy than any stone wall. Seven steps away; I can almost hear noises coming from outside, breathe the fresher air. Two more steps and I've now intentionally broken my mother's rule about not straying too close to the window. Four steps now. I can almost hear her shouts when she finds out what I've done. Three steps. Well, maybe she won't have to find out. Two steps, and my arm is stretching out as though it has a mind of its own, ready to pull back the curtains and help the moth. Just one more step . . .

The material feels rough in my hands as I grab a handful and pull it back, crying out as the full force of the sun's light hits me in the eyes. I blink away the spots and see the moth flitter gratefully around my head before heading over and perching on the bedside table.

"Okay, we helped the moth, now let's back away from the window," Zephyr says, his hands fiddling nervously with each other. But I'm frozen to the spot, remembering the first time I peeked out here, a mere two days ago, and saw the golden headed girl outside. I'd never seen someone with such beautifully blonde hair before; my own hair is nearly as white as my skin from never seeing the sun. She looked a few years younger than me, but who can tell someone's age by their looks? I may be fifteen, but I look half my age. At least that's what my mother always says. I've never seen anyone half my age.

She was looking at the window, almost as if she'd expected me to come out from behind it. I was terrified when I first glimpsed her; all of my mother's warnings came rushing back to me in a sea of voices. But she didn't look dangerous at all. In fact, she raised her hand and waved. And not knowing what else to do, I tentatively waved back.

Afterwards I'd made the mistake of describing what had happened to my mother. She went crazy, shouting about how perilous and risky it had been. I thought it would help if I described to her what the girl looked like, but all it did was send her into more of a frenzy. My father tried to calm her down but she kept yelling something about the "mayor's daughter" and how it couldn't have been worse. I don't know what a mayor's daughter is, but I didn't see the harm in her. She must have been bad though if my mother was so scared of her.

My eyes are still in an unfocused glance out the window, but something catches them and brings me back to the present. There is a man in a white suit standing right outside our house. A man in a white suit who's looking straight at _me_.

I gasp and yank the curtains up to cover the glass again before sinking down onto the floor, my heart hammering. A man, a man saw me. A man with a cold, steely gaze and short black hair. He looked threatening, he looked menacing, he looked exactly how my mother had described the people of the outside. And if danger and peril could be hidden in such a small, innocent looking package like the golden haired girl, who knew what this man could do?

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine's POV<strong>

I dread the return to the square, my brother literally having to pull me along I'm so reluctant to go. I can see in his eyes that he doesn't wish to go either, but it's that or a life sentence in prison, so we must. Right before we split off to go to our different sections, he gives me a big hug, not unlike the one I gave to comfort Dhara this morning. "Be careful, alright?" He looks me in the eye and I nod before watching him head to the sixteen year-olds area. I take my place amongst the youngest of the eligible reaping candidates before worming my way through the crowd to find Dhara. She's stand near the front clasping something in her hand and it takes me a moment to realise it's the shiny star pin her mother used to wear before she died giving birth to Keelee, Dhara's youngest sister. I come to stand beside her and together we wait for our first of many reaping days.

The mayor's speech is quick and then our escort enters the stage, a Capitolite covered from head to do in swirling tattoos. His face is grim though, an expression that spreads fear through my body, trickling down to the very bottom of my stomach. Escorts are always so happy when it comes to the Games; what could possibly make this one look that harsh?

"As per usual in District 6," he begins slowly. "We would start with the picking of the male tribute. However, it has come to our attention that someone has been avoiding the reapings. The Capitol will _not _stand for this and as an example to all those who may try in the future, this male will be automatically going into the Hunger Games."

Suddenly a loud sob escapes from someone in the crowd and I crane my neck to see a blonde haired woman shrieking off to the side, while a man tries to calm her down. They both look like they're trying to head back down the street but there is a wall of Peacekeepers blocking the way. I look at Dhara, but she seems equally confused. What's going on? How could anyone possibly be avoiding the reapings?

"So the male tribute for this year's Hunger Games," the escort continues, ignoring the woman's sobs, "is Taralo Hicken."

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo's POV<strong>

"You shouldn't have done it. You _so _shouldn't have done it."

Zephyr paces faster and faster around the room, but I can't even move. Who was that man? Why was he staring at our house? I put my head in my hands, scared and confused, wishing that my parents would be home soon. The reapings must have started by now. It can't be long 'til they're back. Suddenly something delicate softly tickles my hand and I look up to see the moth land daintily on the floor at my feet. My heart slows to a more normal pace as I gaze at the calm, beautiful creature. It'll be alright, it always is.

A crash at the door startles me. My heart leaps as I jerk my head up, certain that it's my parents, but then I realise that they never make that much noise coming into the house. I glance and Zephyr but at that moment there's a huge boom and the door to my room cracks and flies off its hinges. Five men, all in white suits, come pouring into my room with some sort of sticks that have holes at the end of them. I cry out and scoot backwards, but I'm already against the wall and there's nowhere left to go. I look around furiously for Zephyr but I can't find him anywhere. Where is he? I need him!

A boot stamps down in front of me, right on top of the moth. I gasp and as the boot lifts pick up the remains of the moth, but I can see already that it's no use. Its pearly wings bent and torn, its fuzzy body broken, it's already gone.

I could have spent hours mourning the moth but a rough hand clamps down on my shoulder and drags me to my feet before slamming me against the wall. I wince at the impact, only now fully understanding what my mother meant when she said the dangers of the outside world.

"Are you Taralo Hicken?"

The voice is loud and sharp, it's like a knife is stabbing into my skull. I'm afraid to speak, afraid to do anything, all I can do is glance in terror at my once safe home now invaded by monsters from the other world.

The hand on my shoulder yanks me forwards before pushing me back against the wall. I hit my head hard against the wood, pain flaring up at the back of my skull, my vision blurring, tears pricking the inside of my eyes. "Are you Taralo Hicken?" The voice shouts in my ear this time.

All I can manage is a weak nod; my throat is closing up, making any attempt at speech impossible. What's going on? Why are these men in our house? The one that spoke gives a gruff command and suddenly I'm being dragged across my room and towards the front door of my house. Something clicks within me and I find that I am able to move my body again. I struggle with all my might, knowing that I can't go outside, I can't go into the wild, dangerous place my mother warns me about. I can't, I can't, I can't. . .

Someone hits me on the back of my next and I cringe; from the blow and the fact that soon I'm going to be leaving the one place my mother said could keep me safe from death. They pull me outside and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, wanting this to be over, wanting to go back to the safety of my home. I feel the remnants of the moth still tightly enclosed within my fist and I hold them close to me, trying to keep hold of one thing that was safe and gentle and beautiful, as opposed to the pain and harshness that now fills my life. How did it change so suddenly? And again I wonder, what's going on? Where are my parents? I need them now, I need my mother who lectures me often just because she cares so much for my safety and my father who's kindness knows no bounds and Zephyr, who may be imaginary but has been my friend and confident for years. Where is everyone? Isn't there anyone who can help me?

I'm dragged down a cobblestone road and as we turn a corner I gasp at the amount of people. I never knew so many people could even exist, yet they're all here, hundreds of them, all packed into this one area of the district. They're all so different; black hair, blonde hair, green eyes, darker skin, paler skin. So many different colours and shapes that they overwhelm me and for a second I feel I'm going to be sick. The feeling deepens as I realise that first one, then many heads swivel in our direction, whispers blowing through the crowd like a breeze, people pointing and talking, the noise deafening against my ears so used to the quiet calm of home. The men in suits push and shove me past the crowd, and as we go I see two familiar people and for the first time since I looked out the window my heart fills with a sense of relief. "Mother!" I call out. "Father!" They look at me, their eyes red and shiny trails of tears streaking down their faces. What's going on? Why are they crying? And why are they just standing there and doing nothing? "Help!"

My mother starts crying then, deep, heaving sobs, the like of which I've never heard before, and it scares me to death. Why won't they help me? But before I can call out to them again I'm shoved forwards roughly and I stumble and fall. My hands flail out to catch me and there's a jarring pain in my wrist as it hits the ground. I raise my head to see wooden steps leading upwards and as I'm dragged roughly to my feet again I gasp in horror at the creature standing at the top of the stage.

My mother spoke to me of the horrible monsters from a place called the Capitol. I thought they were made up things, imaginary people like Zephyr used to scare me into not leaving the house. But I was wrong. For the being glaring down at me cannot possibly be human; it's body covered in swirling patterns not unlike the drawings I used to make in the dirt, the yellow eyes with slits for pupils, the fingers that are too long to be normal and as I look at them I can just image them snaking around my throat, cutting off my air supply, slowly draining the life from my body.

I try to back away from the thing at the top of the steps but the men still have me tightly in their grip and slowly drag me up towards the creature. He stares down at me and I can feel his hot breath on my face as I try to shrink away. This is all too much, the men in suits, the large crowd, the outside world. It's too much. I just want to go home, I just want to go home.

The being opens its mouth, holding some sort of stick that's round at one end close to its face. I am expecting some sort of guttural roar but instead the voice that comes out is quite human, albeit with some sort of bizarre accent. "You see," he begins, and I wish my hands were free so I could clamp them over my ears. That voice . . . it's way too loud, louder even than if someone tried to shout. What's wrong with it? "You cannot hide from the Hunger Games. The Capitol will always find you."

He waves his hand and the people holding me move backwards towards the rear of the stage. Close up I can see three people sitting in chairs looking at me and I stare back, silently pleading for one of them to help. Two look away, but the third, a man at the end who seems to have the exact same golden hair colour as the girl I saw before, meets my gaze and I'm startled to see some sort of sick satisfaction in his eyes.

Are all the people outside as heartless as him? So far I haven't been proven otherwise and slowly I sink downwards until the only thing stopping me from hitting the ground is the iron grips of the other men. I can't take this anymore, I'm exhausted, I don't know what to do. I just want this to be over.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine's POV<strong>

I can't help but continue to stare at the boy the Peacekeepers dragged to the stage, even when our escort tries to move on with the ceremony. I've never seen him before in my life and though I may tend to be a little shy I still think I would have remembered seeing someone like him. He looks almost like a ghost with his white-blonde hair and deathly pale skin. _Where did he come from_, I wonder.

My thoughts are interrupted as Dhara grabs my shoulder in fear and soon I see why. Though the choosing of the boy tribute was so odd and different, it seems they'll be doing the girl tribute the same way as always. His tattooed hand reaches into the bowl full of name and I can't help but worry as he pulls the slip out. _You'll be fine,_ I think. _You've got one slip in there. It won't be you_.

"Dhara Toumay!"

"No," I say, barely realising that it was out loud. It can't be Dhara, it can't. I can feel her hand on my arm, squeezing it as hard as she can. All at once the pressure is gone and I look over to realise that she's taken a trembling step forwards towards the stage.

"No!" I shout louder and she turns back to look at me, her eyes wide with terror. And I understand that now is the time. I don't have years, I don't have days, I have _seconds_ to make my decision.

_Dhara's like my sister, and I would do absolutely anything for her._

She slowly turns from me, knowing that I can't volunteer and not expecting me too. No one could ask a friend to do that for them.

_Dhara's like my sister._

She begins on her path to the stage and I'm frozen to the spot, my mind whirring with indecision, the crowd behind me murmuring unhappily at the idea of a twelve year-old going into the arena. But it's not them I have to listen to, none of them are going to step forwards and save Dhara. It's up to me. It's all up to me.

_And I would do absolutely anything for her._

"I volunteer!" I shout out, my voice hoarse as if I've been shouting the phrase all day. Everyone's eyes are now on me, some sad, some sympathetic and some scornful as if they believe that I'm just a child and I don't know what I'm doing. And I don't, not really. But I know for sure that I'm not letting my best friend go into the Games.

The escort glares down at me. "You volunteer?" he asks, his voice positively dripping with derision. Obviously he also thinks that I'm just some sort of lost twelve year-old who doesn't understand the concept of volunteering. But I do. So I stand as tall as my petite figure can stretch and say in the calmest voice I can manage, "Yes."

"No!" Dhara shouts. "She can't! Cathy!" She yells, looking back at me. "Don't do this."

I don't look at her, I can't because if I do I know whatever small amount of resolve I have will crumble. Instead I brush past her and walk up onstage to take my place next to the odd white-haired boy. Dhara's screaming, but the Peacekeepers block her from going anywhere near the stage. _Don't look, _I order myself, placing my hands firmly behind my back and looking out over the crowd towards the roofs of the houses.

"Well," our escort says, smirking. "No doubt these are some of the most interesting reapings yet." He turns away from me and back to the crowd where he swings his hands up and shouts, "Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District 6!"


	8. District 7: Everlasting Grudges

_**Well, here are the District 7 reapings. And guess what? As of the last chapter, we are now halfway through the reeapings! That's right guys, only six more of these thing to read! So don't let me hold you uup any longer :)**_

_**These tributes are courtesty of Moonlight Kit and Theonechance. Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Gwen Watkins's POV<strong>

The first thing I register is hot, humid breath on my face. Slowly opening my eyes, I see that I am face to face with a huge wolf, its teeth bared as it stares back at me. I hold my breath, hoping he'll just go away, but of course, it's no use. Within seconds the wolf's slobbery tongue is all over me, running down my face and completely coating me in drool.

"Argh! Niko, stop it this instant!" The wolf sits back on its haunches and I can hear its tail thumping madly on the floor. Sighing as I realise he's not going to let me go back to sleep, I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. I can tell by the daylight streaming in through my window that it's already late morning. That's odd, normally the sounds of my mother getting up for work rouse me from sleep a lot earlier. Then I remember; Reaping Day. How could I have forgotten? Well I'd better get moving then; if we're gone later the animals are going to need some extra food.

I walk through our house, stopping to take a quick shower before heading downstairs. Our house is much larger than the majority of those in District 7 and _much_ more expensive. My mother is the advisor to Mayor Ferguson and it pays very well. Well enough to start what some may call our own little "animal shelter."

There are all sort of different animals that run wild through our forests and my mother and I were absolutely appalled when we heard of how they were being treated. Killed for their meat, or even just to get them out of the way. What had begun as a onetime thing when found an injured baby boar and brought it home turned into a lifetime of saving animals. It doesn't make much of a profit; only the occasional rich citizen buying a bird or a rabbit for their children, but the money's not important to us.

I tromp down the stairs, Niko at my heels and head towards the door that leads to the basement. "Uh uh," I say, stopping the eager wolf from following me with my foot. "You can't come down here. It may smell like a feast to you, but their lives matter more than your appetite."

Niko whines as I shut the door in his face and head down the stairs. I remember when I first brought him back I was so convinced that I could turn him into a vegetarian so he wouldn't have to hurt other animals to eat. My mother eventually showed me that such a goal was impossible, so we are constantly having to go to the butcher's to get fresh meat. Or at least, my mother does. I have refused to go there ever since I brought Niko home after learning what horrible monsters passing themselves off for humans work there.

A cacophony of noises greets me as I enter the Sanctuary, as I like to call it. A doe and her child lay in one corner while numerous rabbits bounce about and squirrels chase each other around the room. The now full-grown boar sees me enter and trots over, knowing that my arrival can mean only one thing; food. I pat him on the head and open the food cupboard, grabbing an assortment of food and beginning to hand it out.

A loud quack sounds in my ear and I turn to see Stewart looking at me reproachfully, annoyed that he hasn't gotten any food yet. "Calm down you crazy duck," I say, rolling my eyes and I reach my hand into the pail containing bread. Feeling around, my fingers finally curl on what seems to be the last few crumbs and I toss them over to Stewart, who chases after them, honking loudly. A glance inside the pail confirms my suspicions; our bread supply is completely gone. Looks like I'll need to make a trip to the baker's before attending the reaping ceremony.

Niko is waiting for me as usual as I exit the basement. "I'm sorry boy, you can't come," I whisper, smiling slightly at the memory of twelve year-old me trying to take my wolf for a walk in town. Turns out he's not as friendly to others as he is to me. But I guess that makes sense; no one else has ever saved his life.

As I head for the front door, I notice a note taped onto it. _Off helping for the ceremony, please feed the animals. Meet you in the square at one – Mom_. I pull it down and stuff it in my pocket, glancing at the clock as I go. I have three hours before the reapings start; plenty of time to go to the baker's and back. I pause long enough to take some money my mother left for me on the counter before giving Niko one last final pat and heading out the door.

The sun shines brightly down on our district from its place in the azure sky, though the beautiful weather seems a tad out of place when you think of what is to come this afternoon. But I push the thought from my head; I've never had to take tessera, my name's only in the bowl three times. There's not a chance I could get reaped.

_Of course I'm not the only one thinking that today_, I think wryly as I pass a small group of friends consoling each other. _I doubt there's a single child out there in the district who's telling themselves they'll be reaped_. And of course, someone's always wrong.

I'm just heading down the little row of shops to the baker's when I stop, feeling as if someone's eyes are on me. I turn around, but there's no one there, just the old little shoe shop owner sweeping the front steps to his store. Odd, I could have sworn someone was watching me. I shrug and turn to go but just as I do I catch a glimpse of the starer, looking at me through the window of the butcher's. And I realise that it's not just anyone, but _him_. Rowan Hollows. There's no mistaking it; the short, rust coloured hair, the tall, muscular build, and most of all, the cool, calculating gaze that masks the madman beneath the calm features. I feel my body tense uncontrollably, but I will not allow my fear to show. Instead I square my shoulders and glare right back at him before tossing my head disdainfully and continuing down the street. _I will not let him get to me,_ I say to myself. _He probably just looks at everyone like that, he's certainly weird enough, that's for sure. _But it's not the first time I've felt his gaze on me, or turned to see him giving me that same stare. And I can't help but wonder, what is he planning?

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><p><strong>Rowan Hollows's POV<strong>

I continue to gaze after her, watching her every move. The wavy motion of her long, black hair flowing in the wind, her held high as if she owns the district. I fight the urge to laugh; she's so small and pathetic, who does she think she is? I gaze longingly at the rack of butcher knives hung up on the wall, but for now there they must remain. _Not yet Rowan,_ I tell myself. _Not yet_.

But that's fine. I can be patient, I can wait and watch and learn my opponents every weakness. Soon she'll forget about the incident, but I never will. At least, not until I get my revenge. I grit my teeth as the memories of our first encounter come back to me in vibrant detail, as if it had been two days and not two years ago that it had happened.

_I was in the woods, searching for some fresh meat for the shop. I had been tracking a doe through the bush for the better part of the morning, but I was catching up, I could feel it. I could hear noises up ahead and I sped up, readying one of the daggers I carried to strike the fatal blow._

_I peered over the rims of the bushes and stopped short. There was my doe, dead on the ground, her innards splattered everywhere. Completely useless meat. And licking the blood off the carcass was a mangy old wolf that had beaten me to the kill. _

_I clenched my fists tightly, my heart pounding. I would not allow some ratty canine to get away with murdering my kill. Rearing back, I through the knife and watched it spiral towards the wolf, aiming straight for its heart_

_Unfortunately, it was fast. The wolf leapt away from the oncoming knife, and instead of spearing it through the heart like it should have, it landed with a satisfying thump deep into its leg. The wolf howled as crimson trails began to pour from the open wound and join those from the dear on the forest floor. Yelping, it took off, running as fast as it could with its injured leg._

"_You want to play?" I asked, grabbing another knife from my belt. "Fine. Let's play."_

_I took off after it, racing through the forest and following the splatters of blood the wolf left behind. Normally there was no way anyone could keep up with a wolf; but I was fast and the animal was injured. It already seemed to be slowing down and I sped up in anticipation. But when I burst through the trees into a little clearing I did not find what I was expecting._

_A little girl, twelve by the looks of it, was sitting by the wolf at trying to bandage the wound. She looked at me and noticed the knife in my hands. "Did you do this?" she asked angrily._

"_Yes," I said. "Now move aside. That wolf's coming to the butcher's with me."_

_Surprisingly, she clenched her fists and stood up in front of the animal, hands on her hips and a determined expression on her face. "No."_

"_Have it your way then," I said, brandishing the knife menacingly._

"_Gwen?" The two of us both turned our heads as a woman entered the clearing. "Where did you go? Oh," she said, coming to a stop and taking in the scene before her. "Gwen dear, what's going on?"_

"_I was out here, doing my job, and your little daughter is interrupting my work," I answered for her, guessing that with the resemblances between the two that this "Gwen" must be the woman's child. _

"_Mother, he hurt the wolf!" The girl cried, throwing her arms around the animal's neck. One would think that might have been considered dangerous, but the wolf seemed too hurt to really notice._

_The mother looked at me, her lip curling up slightly as though there was something that was disgusting her. My grip on the knife tightened. Was she really going to take a child's word over mine? "You're the butcher's son, are you not?" she asked, her expression implying that such a career was not a desirable one._

"_Yes," I snarled. "Now kindly get your daughter out of my way."_

"_I don't think so," the woman said firmly, marching over to where her daughter stood. "My name is Kendra Watkins, advisor to the mayor and in charge of the animal shelter of District 7."_

"_Animal shelter?" I asked, my tone somewhere between derision and confusion._

"_Yes," she answered. "And we have the right to take any animal in this forest in. This wolf falls under this category and as of now he shall officially be removed from this forest and placed under our care."_

_I couldn't believe this woman. "You do know that all the meat you eat has to come from somewhere, right?" I said really slow, as though speaking to a small child._

"_Oh, I don't eat meat," she said. "And I can assure you there are far more humane ways to get one's nutrients. Now good day."_

_It was clearly a dismissal, but I'd had no intention of just leaving and letting them walk off and "care" for the wolf. I opened my mouth to say something more but as two men walked in on the scene, clearly there to help Ms Watkins take whatever animal she fancied back to her home, I thought better of it. The last thing I remember seeing before I turned and stormed out of there was the twelve year-old's smug little face as she watched the men help load the wolf into a large wagon. _

After that, every time I saw the girl around the district my mind jumped into action, quietly planning my revenge. It would come sometime soon, when she was unprepared and there was no one there to help her. For I never, _ever_ let things go. Sooner or later, she'd been vulnerable. And then, I would strike.

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><p><strong>Gwen's POV<strong>

I quickly collect the bread and leave the baker's, glaring at the butcher's window as I pass in case Rowan is still there. But no one stares back at me, and I can't help feeling slightly foolish. _Just forget about it_, I tell myself. _He probably already has._

I get home and refill the bread pail before cooking myself a small brunch to last me through the reapings. Niko whines to be fed so I pull out some raw chicken and dump it in his bowl, grimacing at the eagerness with which he pounces on it. I still can't get the images of real live animals out of my head every time Niko tears into a dead one. My mother raised me on a no meat diet and to this day I can't see the enjoyment people get out of eating animals. It's disgusting.

A glance at the clock lets me know I only have a half an hour before the reapings begin, so I hurry up the stairs and back to my bedroom to get ready. The flowing red dress Mother bought for me hangs in my closet, waiting to be put on. The silk feels smooth and cool as I slide it over myself and with the bright red of my dress contrasting with my pale skin and black hair, I can't help but smile at my stunning appearance.

I turn to go, but something catches my eye. On the dresser amongst piles of other things, lies a red fabric bracelet with a small heart pendant attached. My grandmother's gift to me before she died. I pause in the doorway, than make my decision and grab it, slipping it on before I go. She said it would bring me good fortune; I don't believe in luck, but on the day of the reapings, who knows?

I head out of the house towards the square, trying to ignore the groups of kids my age around me. I'm not unfriendly, but apparently my feisty temper and talent at telling others what to do can turn people off slightly. Well who cares? I've got enough friends at home, and animals love unconditionally.

The square looks the same every year and I give my mother by the stage a quick wave before taking my place in the fourteen year-olds section. Our mayor gives his speech nervously, clutching the cue cards I'm sure my mother wrote for him. Mayor Greendale is nice, but very timid and shy. I don't know how he'd get any work done without my mother. His speech ends soon and our escort hops up on stage, a young, annoying woman by the name of Tammi.

"Hello District 7!" she shouts into the microphone. "Are you ready for the reapings?"

A few people clap half-heartedly but that's all Tammi seems to need. "Wonderful! Boys first, of course!" She digs her hand deep into the bowl, grasping around for a ballot before pulling one out and glancing at it. I can feel the crowd stiffen, as everyone holds their breath, each praying for a different person.

"Rowan Hollows!"

I blink, not sure if I heard the name correctly. Then slowly, a smile begins to spread across my face until I'm beaming smugly from ear to ear. I can see that most people's reactions aren't all that different; of course not, he's probably one of the most disliked people in the district. I can see him now, moving swiftly through the crowd, glaring at everyone and giving Tammi a look so intimidating that she takes a step away from him, a look of worry crossing her face. He smirks, and takes his place behind her as she recovers and asks for volunteers. Of course, there are none. I can't believe I'm actually smiling at the reapings. I know I shouldn't, and mother probably wouldn't approve, but if anyone had to be going into the Games, they couldn't have picked a better person. His eyes find me in the crowd, glaring daggers, but my expression just gets smugger. That's what he gets for being a violent, evil monster. I just feel sorry for whoever will be going in with him.

"Gwen Watkins!"

My expression freezes, as my brain attempts to process the words. Who did she just call? That couldn't have been me, could it?

My eyes refocus and I see Rowan again, his face now taking on the expression I wore mere seconds ago. Well, two can play at that game. I glare back at him with just as much venom as he did me before haughtily making my way to the stage. Tammi calls for volunteers and for the briefest instant I feel a small spark of hope, but it dies when the silence of the crowd hits me. I see my mother, her eyes wet and she tries to keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks. Her little daughter is going into the Games.

Wait, what am I saying? I'm not little. I am strong, I am good with animals, I know my way around knives. I'm not out of these Games just yet. It's only just beginning. When Rowan and I turn to shake hands, I steadily meet his gaze. He must be ecstatic that we'll meet in the arena. Well, he's going to get the fight of his life.

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><p><strong>Rowan's POV<strong>

Twice this afternoon I thought I was hearing things. The first time, the name our idiotic escort called actually made me tense up, a feeling almost of worry flickering through my stomach. But I pushed it away, knowing that around me were dozens of kids I had inflicted pain to, either mentally or physically or both. All of them wearing satisfied grins at the idea of me going into the arena. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeming weak to them.

And then the girl's name was called. I had locked eyes with Gwen before in the crowd, knowing that she, just like the others, were excited to see me go and die a horrible bloody death. It's too bad I was planning on disappointing them.

But then her name was called and the slightest tickle of sadness or fear disappeared. I watched her walk up to the stage, giving off an air of superiority, but I knew it was all just an act. I could see right through her; she was terrified of going into the Games, especially with me. And suddenly I realised what the fates were doing; not sending me into the Games as punishment, but allowing me to get the revenge I've seeked for so long. It was my last year of eligibility for the Games, and my last opportunity to use them to my advantage. But now, I could.

I sit in the Justice Building with Ember, my parents having already come and said the customary "we love you" and "you can win the Games." Of course I can, but that's not my main goal. First goal, kill Gwen Watkins, as viciously and painfully as I can on camera. My revenge complete, I'll then go on to win the Games.

"I suppose you think you can win," Ember says, as though reading my thoughts.

I wouldn't call Ember and I "friends," no, that's not the right term at all. We're too smart, too ruthless to have any need for what most people call friends. To her, I am an experiment, a thing she can use to test out new strategies of manipulation on. To me, she is a cold wall of stone I can lash out at without any fear of repercussion. It is an unusual relationship, but it suits the two of us fine.

"Probably," I say, relaxing onto the couch in a lazy pose. "If all of the others are as pathetic as my district partner this thing'll be a cinch."

"As always you're going to let your desire for revenge cloud your judgement," Ember says dryly. "Leaving you open as a target for the other, more intelligent, tributes."

"It's too bad they'll need brains to have intelligence," I say casually, "And I plan on cutting those all out of them before they even have time to think."

I glance at Ember and for a moment her cold, distant expression wavers and for the first time since I met her I seem to have cracked her uncaring façade with my morbid statement. But soon it is back and she merely smoothes the wrinkles in her skirt and says, "Very well then. It seems as if you have your strategy all figured out." Slowly she gets up and walks away, leaving me behind on the couch, toying with my district token: a small leather armband with animal silhouettes carved from bone to decorate it with. A fitting token for the Games. Maybe after I win I'll make a new one, adorned this time with the silhouettes of each tribute I've killed. And I can guarantee Gwen will be on that list.


	9. District 8: In the Land of the Sun

_**Sorry for the long wait on this chapter! My english teacher so kindly decided to assign a 35 page grammar project, so I've been a bit occupied with that. But I've posted the chapter now and that's what counts! Just ignore the awful song lyrics in there, I can't write those to save my life :)**_

_**Big thanks to everyone who went to check out Tears of Blood, you guys rock!**_

_**So on with the chapter. These guys were brought to you by meganlucindaxo and DryBonesKing**_

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><p><strong>Precious Blu's POV<strong>

The reapings terrify my little sister. I know she tries not to show it, but the small damp spots on her pillow and the still shining tear tracks down her face are more than enough to let me know how scared she is of them. For three years it's been like this, ever since she turned 12, the eligible age for the Hunger Games. But this time, I may actually be able to cheer her up.

Returning to my bed and crouching low to access the loose floorboard underneath, I reveal the secret spot that has been my hiding place for some time now. Inside are a few coins I've saved up from working in the factories of District 8. I'm supposed to give all of my wages to my father, but I've managed to sneak back a coin or two. And now I can get Molly a little gift to cheer her up before the ceremony starts.

Making sure not to make a sound as I get dressed and leave the house, knowing having my father find out what I was doing would be a very awful idea indeed, I slip quietly out the door and into the streets of our district. Normally packed at this hour with the multitude of factory employees heading for work, myself among them, but today the silence is almost deafening. Reaping Day is technically a holiday so most people get to sleep in for as long as they want. However there's always a few stores that stay open, and those are the one's I'm heading for. After I make a quick detour, of course.

I can't help but smile as the small grey house comes into view, so similar to mine. Kev had said he'd be wide awake and waiting for me to help with the shopping this morning. But judging by the lack of a tall, brown-haired boy waiting at the door for me, I'd guess that he's either forgotten or he's just too lazy to get out of bed. Knowing Kev, it's probably the latter.

I go around to the side of the house and find the appropriate window. Kev and I have been friends for so long that I know the entire layout of his house as well as I know my own. I can see him now, spread out across the thin mattress atop the wooden supports, eyes closed with a look of peace settling across his face. _Well, not for long_, I think, grinning to myself.

When we were young, I used to always complain to Kev about how hard it was to get him up in the mornings. So, being the mechanic-loving, knack for building things guy that he is, he created the Alarm Rock. Apparently some of the richer people in the district actually have clocks that they can set to go off at certain times to wake them up. Kev's invention works much differently, however the results are just as effective.

I bend down and grab a nicely sized pebble from the dirt surrounding the house then drop it down the metal funnel attached to the side of the outside wall. It tumbles through the pipe that weaves its way into the house, making some satisfying clanking noises along the way, before dropping out the edge of the tube and hitting Kev right in the middle of his forehead.

"Ow," he groans rubbing his head and looking at the rock confusedly before registering what it meant and turning to see me at the window.

"You forgot," I say, trying to hide a smile.

"I need to think up a better system," he mutters, getting up and stretching. "Alright, I'll be out in a sec."

I go back around to the front of the house and soon enough a disgruntled Kev joins me, still rubbing the red spot on his forehead. I grin apologetically before we set off into the district.

"So what exactly are we looking for?" he asks as we stroll past the various houses and business's lining the streets.

"I want something to surprise Molly with," I explain, inwardly cursing myself as we pass by yet another closed shop. Why had I saved this until the last minute?

"Well what does she like?"

I stop in my tracks, causing Kev to stumble forwards before he turns back to me with a questioning gaze. But I can't answer, my brain's too focused on his question. _What does she like_? And despite the millions of thoughts buzzing around my head at the moment, I can't find a single one to answer the question.

How could I not have any idea what my sister likes? I could understand if it was my older sister, Erica. At 21 she decided she'd put up long enough with our father and left. Not that I minded; we were never close. But Molly? My dear little sister who I'm more close to than anyone in the world, how could I not know what she likes?

"I don't know," I whisper, more as an answer to my own question than Kev's. But it doesn't matter, the answer's the same.

"Well why don't we check out there?" Kev points behind me and I turn to see a rickety old wooden building at the end of the street with a sign out front, announcing the place as _The Skye Library_.

"A library?" I say, a trickle of doubt detectable in my voice. I didn't even know our district had a library. "Why there?"

"Because it looks like the only place open today and it's probably about as good as you're going to get."

I sigh, knowing he's right. I really should have done this sooner. "Fine," I say, as we change directions and head down the small street to the old "library." "Let's get this over with."

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><p><strong>Janaff Skye's POV<strong>

Today is supposed to be a holiday, a celebration of sorts. In other words, everyone has the day off. But my grandfather still insists on opening the library. And seeing as we rarely get any customers, it's not like it matters all that much anyways.

Which is why when the little bell signalling the opening of the front door rings, I look up from the piles of books I was sorting in confusion. My feeling of bewilderments grows as I stand up and catch a glimpse of the two people who've walked in. A boy and a girl, whether friends or siblings I can't quite tell, though they don't look alike. Brown hair and blue eyes on the boy while the girl's hair is jet black and falls in ringlets past her brown eyes. Both stare apprehensively around the library and I'm just wondering what they're doing here when the girl's eyes land on me.

"Um, hi," she says nervously as her friend turns to look at me as well.

"Hello," I say, pushing up my glasses that have slid down my nose. "Welcome to the Skye Library."

"Right," she says, her eyes looking over the place again.

"We're looking for something to give a fourteen year-old girl," her friend explains. "Do you sell books here?"

"Well," I begin slowly, wishing my grandfather was around. He's run the library for ages, but I don't think he's ever sold a book to anyone. Mind you, it's not like we get that many customers anyways, so maybe it's alright to make an exception. "Sure. The kids' books are in the back."

He nods and turns to the girl as I return to the pile of books I was trying to shelve. I can't hear what's going on, but he seems to be telling her something she doesn't like as she seems to be getting anxious and is gesturing around the library. He tries to reassure her before he heads towards the door and I hear him call out that he'll be back in a bit. The girl glares at him angrily as he gives a cheery wave and disappears out the door, leaving us alone in the library.

The girl looks at me nervously before wandering off down the aisle towards the section I'd pointed out earlier. I go back to my sorting, glancing briefly at the clock to see how much time I have before the reapings, when I hear something that freezes me in my tracks.

_Sleep now my child, don't you cry,_

_Listen intently to my lullaby,_

_Soon we shall rest and the day will be done,_

_And I will find you in the land of the sun,_

_No one can hurt you, no pain shall come,_

_Not from poison, feathered creatures or mutts_

_And not from the white bringers of death,_

_So sleep now my child, don't you cry_

_Just listen intently to my lullaby_

_Soon we shall rest and the day will be done_

_And then I will find you in the land of the sun_

I let out a sharp breath, not realising I had been holding one in. That song was one my mother used to sing to me, before she was killed. I was only three when she and my father were executed on the premise of attempting to start another rebellion in the district, but I still remember it. It just took me years to figure out what the song actually meant. Not a child's lullaby, but a description of the first rebellion. Pain from poison, tracker jackers, feathered creatures, jabber jays. And of course, white bringers of death. Peacekeepers.

I slowly rise and follow the sound of the melody, which has quietened into more of a hummed tune. I turn a corner and find myself face to face with the girl from before who jumps at my sudden approach.

"What do you want?" she asks, harsher than I think she meant to be.

I shake my head, clearing it from the fog the melody induced. "Nothing," I say quickly, turning to go. But before I reach the end of the aisle of books, I stop. "Where did you learn that song?"

She looks at me suspiciously. "I just . . . heard it somewhere," she says carefully, still eying me distrustfully.

I nod, understanding why she wouldn't want to say more. That song was banned from our district after the war was over. It used to be a signal of sorts for the different members of the rebellion to let each other know that everything would be alright.

She turns back to the shelves, sifting through the rows of books and I can tell she has absolutely no idea what she's looking for. I look longingly back the way I came, wanting to go back to my sorting and forget all about this strange girl and her song that's brought up so many painful memories. But I know my grandfather would be disappointed if I didn't assist a customer.

"Do you need some help?"

She looks up again and I can see in her eyes that normally she would never accept the aid of a stranger. But I guess she really is lost because she just sighs and says, "Yes please."

I walk over to the shelves, my fingers brushing against the hard covers and aged papers, giving me a warm feeling of familiarity. After all, this is my area of expertise. "So what exactly are we looking for?" I ask, trying to remember what her friend had said when he first walked in. _Something for a fourteen year-old girl_ . . .

"It's a present for my sister, Molly," she says, biting her lip as she tries to think of something more specific, but she doesn't need to.

"Molly Blu?" The name jogs my memory and I remember the quiet girl who comes in here almost every day to read. She's our only regular customer.

"You know my sister?"

"She comes in here all the time."

"Oh." I can see that this is news to the girl and she frowns as though unhappy that she didn't know this. "So what would she like?"

"Well," I begin, perusing the shelves that Molly so often came to. Most of them she's already read but at the very back I find an old fantasy novel, just the kind of thing she so often came in here to read. I hold it out to Molly's sister and she looks at it before nodding.

"How much will it cost?"

I look from the book to the girl and remember how happy books seemed to make her sister. My grandfather had taken a particular liking to her, frequently pointing out ones she should read. "A girl who can lose herself in stories that easily is one of a kind," he'd often say.

"It's free."

"What?"

"Special Reaping Day sale," I say quickly. "I hope she enjoys it."

The girl opens her mouth to argue but at that point the ringing of the bell echoes through the shop as someone enters. We head out of the maze of shelves and sure enough, her friend is back, carrying a loaf of bread.

"Find anything?" he asks as he sees her.

She looks down at the book in her hands then gazes at me, more curious than distrustful this time. "I think so," she says, showing him the book.

"Great, we can make it back in time to prepare for the Reapings," he says, and together they head for the exit. "Thanks!" he calls to me over his shoulder.

I nod in response but they don't see as the door clanks shut behind them. Once again, I'm alone amongst the books. Though not completely. It still feels as though the melody is in the air, reverberating throughout the library, bringing with it the memories of my lost parents.

* * *

><p><strong>Precious's POV<strong>

I'm still staring at the book, turning it over in my hands. The fact that the boy who worked at the library knew more about what Molly likes than I did still bothers me. I didn't even know she knew District 8 had a library. I didn't even know she liked to read.

"Cheer up," says Kev, sensing my gloomy mood. "We got something for Molly, and now you can surprise her before the reapings! Don't forget that my mother invited you two over afterwards for dinner."

"I won't," I say as split up to head for our separate houses. He turns and waves back and me before nearly tripping over a crate someone had left in the street. I shake my head, smiling, and wave back before heading down the road to my house. I can never stay mad at Kev, even though I was definitely not pleased when he left me in the library to go pick up some groceries.

I jog the rest of the way to my house, knowing that I'll barely have enough time to get ready for the reapings. I spent way too much time in the library and I know there's no chance now of getting home before my father wakes. I can only hope he's left early.

I enter my house and sure enough, I'm in luck. From the lack of the loud marching my father does when he walks, a habit he never shook from being a former Peacekeeper, I can tell he isn't home. But then I hear the sobbing through the silence of the house and my heart drops into my stomach. Molly.

I run to our bedroom and sure enough she's in there, sitting on her bed with her head in her arms, her whole body shaking. I pull her into a hug and stroke her hair as she cries into my shoulder. For a fleeting moment I wonder if she's just terrified of the reapings, but the moment vanishes as I realise the real reason, the reason I've seen her cry and many occasions. I clench my fists in anger but let go immediately; I have to be calm, for Molly.

Sure enough, when I gently release her and get a good look at her face, I see the purple bruise already swelling on her cheek, sending another red-hot wave of fury through me.

My father was never perfect, far from it, but when my mother left him he took a big turn for the worse. Some say she moved all the way to another district to get away from him. Really I couldn't care less where she moved; the only thing that concerns me was that she didn't take Molly and I with her. The same thing happened with Erica; as soon as she was old enough, she moved out, leaving the two of us behind. But I've made myself a promise that I'll never do that to Molly. When I'm old enough, I'm taking her with me out of this house and I will never look back.

Molly begins to calm down until the sobs turn into small whimpers. "He was angry that you left," she manages to say. "He said he was going to have a talk with you after the reapings."

Of course the two of us both know what a "talk" with our father means. But all I feel is anger and guilt at the fact that my sister's pain was my fault.

"What's that?" she asks, drying her eyes on her sleeve and pointing to the book still in my hands. I'd completely forgotten about it.

"It's a present for you," I say, holding it out to her. She takes it reverently, gazing at the cover, taking in every inch of detail. "Where did you get this?" she breaths.

"At the library." Her eyes light up when I mention it and I can tell the boy working there wasn't wrong. She really does go there often.

"Did you say hi to Janaff and Mr. Skye for me?"

"Who?"

"Mr Skye owns the library and works there with his grandson, Janaff," she explains. So the boy Kev and I met must have been Janaff then.

"How come you never told me you loved to read?" I ask suddenly. The memory of the librarian, Janaff, who seemed to have known more about my sister than me comes rushing back. My feeling of guilt grows as I realise just how little I really know about my sister. Between my work at the factory and her school we barely get a chance to talk to each other anymore.

"I was going to tell you," Molly says apologetically, speaking my thoughts. "But I just never had the time."

Time. There never seems to be enough of it. I never got enough time to just be a kid when I was forced to work in the district factories at eleven. I never had enough time to really get to know my other sister; maybe if I had, Erica would have taken us with her. But I am not going to let time push me and Molly apart. Tonight, after the reapings, we're going to have a nice, long talk and I'll get to know my sister again, like I used to.

"Precious?" Molly asks, shaking me from my reverie.

"Sorry," I say. Then I grin. "Well, we'd best set off for the reapings now, shouldn't we?"

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff's POV<strong>

It's a terribly hot day today and the numbers of bodies packed into the square don't make it any more pleasant. I push my glasses back up my nose again as they begin to slip down the streak of sweat lining my and everybody else's face. From my current position crammed into the seventeen year-olds section I can just see the stage and the escort walking up onto it. Good, that means we'll get to go soon. I wipe some sweat from my forehead and brush my damp, brown hair out of my eyes as he begins his little spiel about how happy he is to be here before quickly moving on with the reapings. I think the heat's getting to him too.

He slides his hand into the girls bowl, wasting no time in grabbing a slip and pulling it out. "Precious Blu!" he calls out.

The first thing I realise is that that's Molly's last name. Then I see her, walking out of the sixteen year-old section, head high with a small, fake smile on her face. The girl from the library. A cry arises from the fourteen year-old section and I know that it must be her sister's. I can't help feeling awful for the girl, Precious, and for Molly. They both seemed like nice kids, they don't deserve the sadness the reapings bring on families.

In that instant I finally understand the feeling that must have pushed my parents to attempt another rebellion. I never did before, never realised how much the reapings must have affected people. But I know now, and part of me wishes that I'd done something about it sooner instead of watching year after year as tributes were reaped. We all deserve freedom, don't we?

A cold feeling dribbles through my stomach despite the heat and I suddenly get the feeling that I'm being watched. I turn, expecting it just to be one of my peers, but instead I find the eyes of a Peacekeeper boring into mine. Maybe he's just looking at the crowd in general. But as minutes pass and his gaze doesn't waver I can only conclude that it is me, specifically, that he is looking at. Though I guess it is reasonable; when you're the son of the two people in the district who tried to start a new rebellion, of course they'd want someone watching you. It's a miracle they haven't tried to get rid of me yet.

As if someone has flicked a switch in my brain, it starts whirring with thoughts. _Haven't tried to get rid of me . . ._ yet. Maybe they were waiting to see if I'd grow up to be a good member of society, a valuable asset to the district. But it's evident, even through the little things I do, that I am my parents' son. Which is a bad thing for them. I've almost out-grown the eligible reaping age, if they're going to make their move they'd better do it soon. And instantly I know whose name is coming out of the reaping bowl, whose name the escort will call out in their excited voice. And there's nothing I can do, I already know it's going to be-

"Janaff Skye!"

The world goes fuzzy for a second as I realise that I was right and even though I was hoping that just this once I'd be wrong, I wasn't. I take a deep breath and start for the stage; I'm not giving the Peacekeepers any chance to come and get me. And surprisingly, with each step I grow a little more confident. I haven't trained for the Games, not exactly, but I'm more than prepared mentally and I'm not awful at the physical stuff either. The Careers may have advantages over me in the latter department, but in the former I am much more qualified than any of them could ever hope to be. What's that old saying? Brains over brawn.

I mount the steps to the stage and stand firmly beside Precious while the escort calls out for volunteers, but as always in our district, there are none. _But that's alright_, I think to myself. _I can do this_. And though part of me keeps insisting that if they went through the bother of rigging the reapings (which I'm assuming they did), they would definitely not let me come home again, but I silence that part of my brain immediately. Those thoughts are not going to help in the arena. And even as I think that, a more technical side of my brain already begins planning, creating plans and strategies for the Games. I allow myself to show a small smile. This might actually work. The anthem plays and Precious and I shake hands, but I'm barely aware of it; my mind is far away already working on all sorts of scenarios that will bring me home.


	10. District 9: Unconditional Love

**_So, we're now at District 9! I'm sorry for the wait, but these tributes were super hard for me to write. Really tough. And I'm sorry if it seems a bit rushed at the end, I wanted to finish before my mom kicked me off the computer. So this is my Valentine's Day gift to you 3_**

**_I actually decided to jump around POVs a bit and do some POVs that weren't from the tributes. Partly because I felt like it, partly because the actual tributes were so tough to write and partly to change things up so you guys aren't reading the same thing over and over again. Let me know what you think of it, and if it's too confusing and I should never do it again or if you like it :)_**

**_Without further ado, here are the D9 tributes, thanks to booksandmusic97 and TeamGlimmer!_**

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini's POV<strong>

It's nice to be up in the early mornings at our house. Normally I always sleep in but I should really do this more often. Though our house is considerably larger than most in District 9, when you have five younger siblings running around it can tend to get a bit hectic. But with everyone still asleep, the sun just peeking over the horizon and painting the sky all different shades of pink, purple and orange, light reflecting off of the millions of drops of dew that settled over the district like a blanket during the night, it's really quite beautiful.

Still, I didn't wake up this early to admire the view. It's Rachel's 5th birthday today and I wanted to make her favourite breakfast.

I always try to focus on the present whenever my daughter's birthday rolls around, which might be why I tend to go a little overboard for it. Focusing on the present makes it much easier to forget the past and the truly awful circumstances of Rachel's birth.

I sigh and stare out the window as I mix together the pancake batter. Maybe it would be best if my younger siblings were awake and running around the house; it might make it easier to stay in the present. But no matter how hard I focus my brain keeps returning to those four months and, more importantly, that one night.

Thankfully a knock at the door stops the details from flooding my mind. I briefly wonder who might be at the door but of course it could only be one person: Noah.

"Hey," he says softly, giving me a kiss as I let him in.

"Hi," I whisper back, letting my forehead rest against his. Noah and I have been friends for as long as I can remember, ever since his mother, who works as our maid, had to take him with her to work with her. I never thought there could possibly be anything romantic between us because of Rachel but Noah was there for me, helping me every day as I took two slow years to recover. And afterwards, I don't know, our friendship just became more. And I couldn't be happier.

"Anyone else up?"

"Not yet. Want to help me make pancakes?"

"Sure." Noah follows me into the kitchen as I begin pouring the batter onto the fryer in the shape of Rs and 5s for Rachel. She always thought it was magic how I could get the pancakes to look like that.

Of course Noah "helps" me cook by sitting on the table and watching. "So, big number 5 for Rachel today, huh?"

"Yes," I say, smiling fondly at the thought of my daughter. But I can see that there are other things on Noah's mind then just her birthday. "What?"

He stops fiddling immediately with whatever he had in his coat pocket. "What?"

"What were you . . . never mind." I shake my head and return to cooking. If he wants to tell me, he'll tell me.

Sure enough, he clears his throat to speak. "Imogen, I was, uh, thinking . . ."

"That's never a good sign," I say with a smile. He grins back but he's not really thinking about the joke; his mind is elsewhere this morning. "Thinking about what?"

He gives me a long look, as though thinking something over, two parts of his brain warring over one idea. Finally he shakes his head. "Never mind?"

"Seriously, what?"

He opens his mouth and hesitates, but seems to think better about it. "Why don't I tell you after the reapings?" He gets up and embraces me. "It's your last one."

"Don't think you're getting out of this that easily," I say, tapping him on the nose with the spoon and getting a few drops of pancake batter on him. "I won't forget until you tell me."

"Of course you won't." He smiles and I just lean in for another kiss as sounds from upstairs indicate the awakening of my family. Soon enough Karmin and Enid are tromping down the stairs, chatting to each other about some teacher at school, closely followed by Jack and my father, who carries the twins Matt and Martinez with him. Lastly comes my mother, helping an ecstatic Rachel down into the kitchen.

"Mommy!" Rachel shouts, running over to me. I laugh and pick her up, giving her a big kiss on the cheek.

"And how's my five year-old girl?"

"I feel really old! Like Karmin and Enid and Grandma!" She smiles widely and catches sight of breakfast. "Magic pancakes!"

I laugh and shoo her off to her spot at the breakfast table as everyone else takes their seats. Noah helps to set the table as he and my father discuss the weapons business that District 9 is famous for. Everyone's gotten so used to having Noah here for meals that he now has a permanent spot at the dining table. They laugh and chat about events in the district, the looming Reaping ceremony having no effect on the cheery mood here in our house. And why would it? None of us have ever had to take tessera; our father makes more than enough money as head of one of the major weaponry companies in the district. We've never had anything to worry about. And we never will.

* * *

><p><strong>Carlisle McAwny's POV<strong>

The first thing I register is an itchy, uncomfortable blanket. I can feel cold, hard floor beneath me, meaning I'm at home. But when I sit up, I realise it's quite the opposite.

Dozens of children are sleeping around me and for a moment I wonder if I'm dreaming. Although I guess if I am, that doesn't really mean anything. The line between dreams and reality, hallucinations and real life, was blurred for me a long time ago.

So if it is a dream, I might as well go with it. Slowly I rise from my position on the floor and wander through the maze of sleeping children over to a window. Where am I? The room seems familiar and as I stare through the glass pane I feel as if I've seen this view before as well.

"Hey." That voice, I know that voice. I turn to see my little brother, Damon, standing behind me and letting out a big yawn, his black hair the exact shade as mine standing up all on one side, messy from sleep.

"Hi," I say back as he joins me at the window.

Damon looks at me, as though assessing my health. "How are you feeling today?" he asks slowly.

Physically, fine, as always. I've never gotten sick in my entire fourteen years of existence. But I know that's not what Damon is asking. With me, it's not a question of how I feel physically, but more of a mental problem.

Many people have different reactions when they're thrown into bad situations. Some grow angry and destructive, others become sad and live their lives in a permanent state of misery. My response, however, was quite different. Not content with what was going on around me, I turned inwards, relying on my brain to create a new world for me, a better world. It helps me to deal with the stress but others seem to be a bit nervous when they're around me, constantly whispering the word "crazy" over and over again to their neighbours.

But occasionally I can crawl out of my own little world and back to what most people would call "reality." So far, today seems to be one of those days.

"Good," I finally answer back. Damon keeps looking at me, not sure whether or not to believe it, but after a moment he just sighs and accepts the answer. My poor brother, he's only a year younger than me but he's become my personal caregiver. I'd like to help him, I really would. But lately I've been finding it harder and harder to slip away from the grasps of the hallucinations that take over my brain. Maybe today I can help him with something, do something to repay him for taking care of me.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"The District Orphanage," he replies. "Don't you remember last night?"

Last night. A whirlwind of images and memories come back to me, blurring together and making it almost impossible to glean any sort of information from them. A thick, sour smell coating our house. A bottle being lobbed through the air, crashing against the wall close to my head. Damon, scared, hurriedly pulling me out of the house.

I try to sort through the images, attempting to make sense of them. Luckily today it seems easier than most days. Our father was drunk, again. Damon got us out of there like he always does whenever our father gets too violent. And then we came here, the last step in our consistent routine.

Looking around now I begin to recognise the various sleeping faces throughout the room. Chance, who I consider as my best friend, a sarcastic, but likable boy. Reta, a slightly slow but nevertheless chirpy girl. And there are more that I know, that I've seen before on the nights Damon has brought us here.

I'm just trying to remember the name of a skinny red-head when all of a sudden a piercing whistle cuts through the air. Ms Peasenburg, who runs the orphanage, is standing at the door and clapping to try and wake everyone up. I watch as groggily the room begins to come alive with the sounds of groans as kids are forced to get up. Close by, Chance and Reta are slowly getting out of bed before making their ways towards us.

"I swear she wakes us up earlier each morning," Chance says with a yawn.

Damon points at the clock. "Actually we got to sleep in later this morning. Reapings are today, remember?"

Chance makes a face. "Right. Guess we'd all better dress ourselves up for the Capitol."

The words bounce around in my skull. Reapings. Capitol. Words that should make sense to me but have lost their meanings after spending so much time in my own world. But I can feel the waves of emotions that come with them. Sadness, I think. And worry. Not knowing what else to do, I give Chance a hug, as I think that's the customary thing to do when someone is scared or sad. He gives me an odd look for a second before awkwardly patting me on the back. This sort of thing tends to happen a lot; no matter how hard I try I can't seem to grasp the social customs that other people exchange with ease.

"We should be heading home," Damon says, grabbing me by the arm and gently leading me to the door. Normally we stay at the orphanage for as long as we can until our father either comes and begs or threatens us to come home. But there's something special about today, some reason we're supposed to leave early. It has something to do with these "Reapings." I just wish I could remember what. "We'll see you guys in the square."

Chance and Reta wave goodbye as I allow Damon to lead me out of the building and down the road to home. Always following him, always needing his help. It's been this way for so long now that I can't even remember when it first began. I really should repay him, one day. One day.

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen's POV<strong>

The streets are already crowded as the ten of us make our way to the square, soon joined by my other friends Kina and Laleh. But once we reach the center of our district we all have to split up: my mother, father and Noah taking Rachel, the twins and Karmin to wait with most of the crowd while Enid, Jack, Laleh, Kina and I head to our respective sections.

"Good luck," Noah whispers in my ear.

"Don't need it," I say, smiling back at him.

"Am I going with Daddy?" Rachel asks.

The two of us can't help but grin and her question. For the longest time Rachel has always called Noah "Daddy" and I've never felt the need to dissuade her from the notion. At times I wonder if it makes him uncomfortable and think that maybe I should correct her, but I haven't the heart to try and explain what a monster her real father is.

As I wait with all the other eighteen year-olds, I can't help but look for _his _face in the crowd, though I'm terrified of what might happen if I found it. Sub-consciously I move closer to Laleh, hoping to feel the sort of reassurance only a close friend can give. She smiles and clasps my hand. I know both of us are thinking the same thing. _Our last reaping, our last year of eligibility. Just one more_.

The ceremony passes quickly and soon it's time for our escort to choose the girls names. She reaches a long finger-nailed hand into the bowl and grasps a slip and Laleh and I look at each other, smiling, unlike the rest. This is it. She'll read the name and we'll be free of this yearly worry, though neither of us really have anything to worry about. One more slip and we'll have our freedom.

"Imogen Torrini!"

My grin freezes on my face as the name is called, a name I expected to not recognise, to be someone who at most I barely knew. It's as though my entire body is tensing up for a fight, like it's already in those dreaded Games. I swallow hard and begin to make my way up to the stage. I can do this, I can do this.

And then I hear one long, drawn out scream. "Mommy!"

* * *

><p><strong>Rachel Torrini's POV<strong>

Mommy never told me what the holiday was for. Grandma doesn't say either. But she holds me up high in her arms so I can see the funny coloured lady who comes every year. She always shouts out names. To play a Game, Mommy says. That's all she ever tells me. It's for people who are playing a Game.

I like games. I play them with my best friend Sammy all the time. I thought Sammy liked to play games. But when Sammy's sister's name was called to play the Game, Sammy wasn't happy. She was very, very sad. And so were her Mommy and Daddy. I don't see Sammy's sister anymore.

When the funny lady called out Mommy's name I was scared. Mommy likes to play games too, but I don't think she likes the Game. And her name is getting called and she has to go play. But she has a choice, right? You can always quit the Game if you want to. There's a little boy named Poiran who always quits if he's losing. It's not very fair. But Mommy can quit. She doesn't have to play.

But I can see Mommy walking up to the funny coloured lady. Why doesn't she stop? Why can't she quit? Suddenly I am very scared, scared for Mommy. I don't want her to leave me and go play a Game. Sammy's sister never came back from her Game. What if Mommy has so much fun that she forgets about me?

"Mommy!" I cry out. She can't forget about me. It's my birthday and birthday girls always get a wish. I wish Mommy would come back. I want her to come back right now.

And now Grandma is crying and hugging me and I don't know why and I'm scared. Why is Grandma sad? Grandma is never sad. She's always smiling and giving me presents. Why is everyone so sad? And why can't Mommy come back? Why does she have to play the Game?

Why does she have to leave me?

* * *

><p><strong>Noah Maggio's POV<strong>

One reaping. That was it. One more reaping. That was all that separated the two of us and a life of happiness together. One last reaping.

I look at the ring in my hands, fighting the sobs that are trying to force their ways through my throat. This morning I was going to do it. Maybe I should have done it. But I chickened out. It had to be perfect. So after the reaping, I thought. Then we'll be happy and together. And safe.

As her family files out of the room where she sits, eyes red from teary goodbyes, the Peacekeepers gesture to me to come in. I am the last one.

I hesitate as I walk in. Seeing her sitting there, looking so young and vulnerable, nearly breaks me. But I have to be strong, for her. I have to be strong, just like I was during those two awful years where I had to help her through what she'd experienced. The fired employee looking for a way to get back at her father. Following her home every day. Finally escalating to kidnapping. For four months I lived in fear that I'd never see her again, that I'd lost my chance, that she was gone. But then she escaped, thanks to the carelessness of her kidnapper. I thought she was finally safe back with me. Until she found out about the baby.

Imogen Torrini is the strongest woman I know. She can get through anything the world throws at her, anything at all. That's why she will make it through the Games and return home.

So when she runs to me and I catch her up in my arms, I only hold it for a few seconds before getting down on one knee. She stares at me in shock as I take out the ring.

"Imogen Torrini, I have loved you ever since I first laid eyes on you. There is no one else I would rather be with in the world than you. Every time we're apart I feel as though my life is empty without your presence. I have loved you, do love you and will love you with all my heart. Imogen, will you marry me?"

I can see the tears brimming in her eyes and she throws her arms around me. "Oh Noah," she whispers, crying and yet smiling. "Yes. Yes, yes, yes."

For a moment she is blissfully happy, but then the memories of where we are and what she has to do come back to her and she lets out a small sob. I take in my arms and gaze into her eyes.

"Imogen, you can do this. You can win the Games. You've practiced with weapons, you're smart, you're strategic, you have everything it takes to win."

"Noah, I-I don't think I can . . ."

"You can. Remember, you're not alone." I clasp my hand over hers and squeeze the ring into it. "I'll be cheering for you all the way."

She lets out a small laugh and nods. I pull her in tight and hold on to her, never wanting to let go, never wanting this moment to end. Of course the Peacekeepers come eventually and tell me that our time is up, but I want to argue with them, to shout that nothing they could ever do will take me away from Imogen. But I know it's no use.

Although, the best part of parting is the thought of be reunited again. And I know that I will be with Imogen again. She will win the Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Carlisle's POV<strong>

Waves of colour wash over me, huge barrages of sounds hitting my ears with a pounding force. But I don't register any of it. Faces swim before my eyes; my brother, Chance, Reta. But I can't contact them, reach out to them in any way. They might as well be dead to me.

I go over the day in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. We got back to our house, luckily our father was passed out on his dilapidated bed so we could get ready for the Reapings in peace. I followed Damon to the square, like always. At that point we had to separate, him going with the thirteen year-olds and I with the fourteen year-olds. Without him I began to slip away, crawling back into my own little world, away from these "Games" that everyone was worried about.

But one thought held me to the present, like a lifeline to the real world. My promise to repay Damon. I had to do it, he'd taken care of me for so long, I had to show him once that I could help him.

And then I heard it, called out across the square. "Damon McAwny." At first I didn't know what it meant. But then I remembered. It had to do with the Games. It was a bad thing, a very bad thing for his name to be called.

It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. Never, in living memory, could I remember feeling so . . . normal. So involved in the real world, so in the present. And I remembered the rules of these Games, or, more specifically, the rule to volunteer.

So I stepped forwards, calmly stating that I volunteered. I could hear my brother shouting by I tuned it out. That was a first. Normally I have to work to tune in to what my brother is saying.

All throughout the ceremony, I'd never felt so alive. But now that I was in the "Justice Building" as they called it, I could feel myself slipping away. It's become sort of a reflex, a defence mechanism I use if I'm ever in a dangerous situation. After I remembered what the Games meant exactly, I guess my brain just shut out the real world. If I can't register it, it doesn't exist. But it makes me sad. I'd have liked to say goodbye to my brother.

They lead me slowly out the door, to a train, they say. But I don't really care. I'm leaving them, leaving this world behind, soon I won't hear them at all. But what matters is that for a few moments, I was truly awake. And those few moments had been the ones that counted most.


	11. District 10: Duties and Daydreams

_**We are into the double digits for the reapings! That's right, only 3 more to go! These one's are shorter than the others, so they'll make for an easy read. These tributes were created by Penmysword and Zeiddo**_

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><p><strong>Calican Sareamer<strong>

_1. Why was Panem built?_

To bring peace and prosperity to its citizens and to prevent any more wars and disasters from happening.

_2._ _What were the Dark Days?_

A rebellion of the 13 districts against the Capitol.

_3. List five reasons why the leaders of the rebellion were dangerous and insane and explain each reason in detail._

I drop my pencil and sigh in defeat. Today is the day of the reapings; it's _supposed_ to be a holiday for everyone. But seeing as I have no real free time between work and school, I need to get this thing done today or my teacher will have my hide. I take a deep breath and turn back to my home work.

_3. List five reasons why the leaders of the rebellion were dangerous and insane and explain each reason in detail._

Okay, I can do this. I start scribbling down answers as fast as I can, my pencil flying across the page. Really, this question isn't actually that hard. There are quite a few reasons the rebellion leaders were a tiny bit crazy; I'm proof of that.

Apparently during the Dark Days the leaders were encouraging people to reproduce. "Give us more fighting warriors," they said. As if they thought they could hold their own in the war against the Capitol long enough for all those babies to actually be able to do something helpful. Most people seemed to think along these lines and didn't really put much stock into what they said. Not my parents though.

David Sare and Quenla Amer both thought that anything the rebellion leaders said was true. So they took the whole "reproducing" concept to heart. They didn't get married or anything, they just decided to . . . well, I don't really want to go into to detail so let's just say they got together and the end product was me. Calican "Sareamer" since I was both of theirs. We still all live in the same house, but there's nothing romantic that ever goes on between my mother and father. In fact, my mom is currently in a relationship with a different guy. I don't particularly like him but hey, if it makes her happy.

I finish answering the question with a triumphant smile. Only two more to go . . . wait. I turn the page over and catch a glimpse of the other side of the paper full of more questions and groan. I'm _never_ going to get this thing done.

"Hey Calican! Calican!"

I turn and jump back in my seat, almost falling off the chair. My three friends are standing right behind me, all smiling broadly.

"You know if someone ever tries to rob your house, you'd be screwed. We could just walk right in and take whatever we wanted," Kastler says laughing.

"Well I doubt my parents would bother even trying to stop you." I grin. "They'd probably just wish you well and point you towards the most valuable things."

Another odd thing about my parents; they're super nice to everyone. It's not a bad thing, but because they focus so much on spreading "good vibes" as they call it, they don't make too much money. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if someone brainwashed them.

"True," Kastler says chuckling. "You want to come hang out before the reapings?"

I make a face. "Can't. I have to finish the assignment."

"You didn't get it done in class?" Poe asks, brushing her mousy brown hair back behind her ears.

"Yeah, well, we can't all be braniacs like you," Keya, Kastler's girlfriend says. "Besides, it's not due for ages, right?"

"I wanted to get it done early."

"Jeez, you and Poe make us look awful by comparison." Kastler says, nudging Keya, who smiles. "Why don't you just take it to the reapings with you? The mayor normally says all that stuff in his big speech, you can get the answers there."

I'll admit, I hadn't thought of that. It certainly would save time to have the answers read out to me instead of trying to remember them from class. I hesitated, torn by the desire to finish the assignment now and get it out of the way or to hang out with my three best friends. Though really, when I thought about it, it wasn't much of an option.

I smile. "Alright, let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>Devera Let<strong>

_He had to be hot, obviously. And strong. So strong that he could pick her up and carry me all around the district so that I'd never have to walk again. He would walk right over that hill and run towards me, holding roses and chocolates, which I would graciously accept. Then he would bend down on one knee and begin to pronounce his undying love for me._

"_Devera."_

"Devera!"

"_I love you."_

"The geese are getting away."

I shake my head, trying to come out of my reverie. Slowly the picture of my handsome, stunning dream boy fades, replaced with the very real image of my sister standing in front of me, a smile on her face. I glance over at the geese I'm supposed to be looking after; currently they're all running around in different directions.

After a rigorous twenty minutes of attempting to get them all back together, they finally stay in a small group by the lake. I turn back to my sister, Keya, who is standing there watching me.

"I thought you had plans with Kastler," I say, sighing a bit inside. My sister is so lucky to have a boy friend, and an attractive one at that. I often dream about being like her.

"I do, I'm heading out soon," she says. "But dad told me to remind you that the reapings are today and you have a shorter shift today." She laughs as my eyes widen; I had completely forgotten about the ceremony. I guess I can get a little too caught up in my own daydreams sometimes. "Just don't forget."

"I won't." But she's already turning away, Kastler and their friend Poe appearing at the top of the hill. So it isn't romantic plans she has then; but I bet they'll be doing something after the reapings. Every night since they got together they've been practically inseparable. I sigh again, wondering if I'll ever meet my dream guy, before chasing after an unruly goose who's wandering down the banks of the small lake.

I spend most of the morning daydreaming some more and herding the geese, and as the sun reaches its peak in the sky I can see my employer, Jerald, coming over to relieve me for the day. I bring the geese back into their pen and take my pay before heading out towards town where my family lives. On my way I run into a couple of boys, but none meet the criteria I have in my head for dream man. They're too immature and childish, calling me "Goose Girl" and laughing. I make a mental note to ask my fantasy guy to teach them all a lesson. When I found him, that is.

I push open the door of my father's little shop and hurry up the stairs to my room, handing him my money as I do so. I'd been saving money for ages to buy the perfect Reaping dress and had been itching to wear it. It had sat in my drawer for a week, but today, I'd finally get to put it on.

The satiny, blue material looks absolutely gorgeous, and for a while all I can do is stand in mirror and stare at myself. There's no way any guy would be able to resist me in this, I'm sure of it. With this dress, fate will have no choice but to provide me with an amazing boy.

I walk down the stairs and am greeted by Popple, my best friend since we were eight. She "oohs" and "ahhs" at my dress and in turn I compliment her on hers before the two of us wave goodbye to my parents and head out towards the square, chatting about who we think will get reaped this year and if it'll be one of the jerky guys in our class, which is a probability because there are quite a few of them. I catch a glimpse of Keya with Kastler and their other friends in the seventeen section before Popple and I are swept away in the crowd of fourteen year-olds.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican<strong>

I'm trying to write as fast as I can, but the mayor talks too quickly and the speech is done before I can get through all of the questions. Kastler taps me on the shoulder to indicate that the actual reaping ceremony is starting and I sigh and drop my pencil back into my pocket. I knew I should have finished this thing at home. But then again, I don't regret going to hang out with my friends. It's one of the only times I can really be me.

The escort, a really muscled man named Donnie Yucoth walks on stage and heads for the reaping bowl. He takes great care as he reaches his hand in to grab a slip; last year he knocked the bowl off of its podium and the whole thing shattered, paper flying everywhere. It was pretty funny.

After taking an achingly long time trying not to bump the bowl, he pulls out a slip. I can't help but hold my breath, as he calls the name out, even though I know there's no possibility of it being me.

"Calican Sareamer!"

My first thought is _I jinxed it_. I might as well have asked for it to be me. But that thought disappears quickly replaced by ones more along the lines of _Oh my gosh, I'm going to die._

The paper drops from my hand as I just gape at the stage, thinking that maybe if I stare at the escort long enough he'll call out a different name. But of course, he doesn't, and I can feel my friends devastated looks as they try to think of something reassuring to say or do. Really though, what can you say in a situation like this?

I start mechanically walking up to the stage, feeling as though it's not really me that's in control of my body. My mind is still far away, trying to calculate the possibility of me, of all people, being reaped. It's so small; I only had six slips, I know lots of kids who have to take tessera. Why was it me? Why?

I mount the stage and take my position, staring back at the members of my district. The girl's name is called, "Devera" something, and I feel like I should recognise her but I can't, the world seems to be spinning around me and I'm starting to worry that I might cry or throw up or do something stupid like that. I can't break down, I know I can't, the other tributes will be watching the reruns and looking for weaknesses. But I don't think I can hold all my emotions in. I think I might explode, it's too much, it's . . .

A paper airplane comes flying out of the crowd and through the air, landing at my feet. The escort glares sideways at me, as if I'm the cause of the disturbance, but keeps talking, trying to not let it distract him. I bend down to pick it up and unfold it, realising that it's my homework assignment. At the bottom, there's the last question that I didn't answer.

_10. In your opinion, what are the qualifications an ideal tribute should have?_

I didn't manage to finish that one, but still there's writing filling up the space for an answer. I recognise Kastler's sloppy penmanship and hold it up closer to my face to read.

_The ideal tribute should be brave and loyal, kind and caring. They should be smart and quick on their feet but at the same time they should be able to think things through and make the best decisions. They don't need lots of physical training to win; they just have to be nothing short of amazing._

_Calican, you are nothing short of amazing. You're coming home a winner._

I bite my lip to try to keep from laughing, but I can't stop the huge smile that spreads across my face. My friends believe in me, they think I can win, and who am I to tell them otherwise? Maybe I can, just so long as I know they'll be waiting here at home for me.

* * *

><p><strong>Devera<strong>

I can't help but keep glancing at my district partner as we stand on the stage. I know him, he's one of Keya's friends; Calican, I think. I wonder what it says on the piece of paper that flew to him.

I'll admit, at first, I was surprised to be reaped. But I think this is fate's way of giving me a chance at romance. I've seen previous Games were the tributes have ended up falling in love against all odds, and I'll admit, I've had a fantasy or two about love in the arena. Of course, only one of us can win, but I'd expect my man to be so in love with me that he'd sacrifice himself so that I could live on. It would be so heartbreakingly tragic, and yet, so romantic, like the relationship I've always dreamed of having.

I sneak another sideways peek at Calican. He's really not all that bad looking. Sandy brown hair, mysterious, dark brown eyes, stocky build. Obviously he's nothing compared to the huge mass of muscle that is our escort, but he looks in shape. He's a few years older than me, but that doesn't really matter. Maybe he could be my lover in the arena, and help me win. It's always a possibility. Of course, I'll have to wait and see what the other male tributes look like first.

I turn back to the crowd, made up of many sombre faces. But I'm not scared for these Games. I know I can win, with or without someone to help me. Though it will be much more enjoyable with my dream guy.


	12. District 11: The Emerald Eyed Pair

_**Hey, do you know what this is? The penultimate reapings! That's right, second to last! We're so close!**_

_**I realised that throughout these chapters whenever something intense comes up in a tribute's backstory I just tend to vaguely imply it, so I'm sorry for that if it's confusing or anything. I just don't really know how to go about those things in greater detail.**_

_**Anyways, here are the District 11 tributes, brought to you by lastsacrifice and TrudiCanavanlover**_

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte<strong>

Reaping Day. A holiday, in other words. A day for people to rest, relax, sleep in long past dawn. Certainly not a day to be out patrolling the orchards in an attempt to stop thieves from stealing you beloved fruit. After all, what kind of thief would try to steal on Reaping Day anyways?

Oh, that's right. I would.

Everything had been going perfectly. There was absolutely no one awake at this hour and the apple trees were just sitting there, their succulent red fruits practically _asking _for someone to come along and eat them. All I'd had to do was slip between the trees and scramble up the trunk to collect a few. But I guess I was a little out of practice. I hadn't done this in two weeks, ever since I hit the mother lode when I'd managed to grab two whole bags of pastries and bread from the bakery. My mother and sisters had enjoyed actually having full bellies for awhile, but now was time to restock our food supply.

Where was I? Oh yes, climbed the tree, found the apples, blah, blah, blah. Though it was a hot day I'd worn a big coat with enough large pockets to carry quite a few apples. I'd just been reaching out for the last one when the amulet my father used to wear, bronze with the image of a wolf carved into its surface, snagged on a sharp branch. It cut right through the already fraying thread that held it together and I watch as it fell through the leaves, making a heck of a lot of noise, until one end of the cord caught on a branch. It dangles there, about five feet off the ground, the surface reflecting the rays from the sun all over the place. I might as well have just gotten a giant, light up sign saying, "Here Peacekeepers! The thief you're always trying to catch is right here!"

I curse and start to shimmy down the tree, praying that there was no one on patrol this morning. It's a holiday, no one's ever out here this early. But of course luck is not on my side today.

My descent stops abruptly as a white clad man comes into view, trying to find the source of the disturbance. I hold my breath as he stops right under me, removing the amulet from its hanging position on the tree and examining it. _Please be stupid,_ I think, repeating it to myself over and over. _Don't put two and two together, just be an idiot and walk away. Walk away . . ._

I could almost hear the click his brain made as he realised where the amulet came from. He looks up and for a moment we just stare at each other. He opens his mouth to shout but he already hesitated longer than I have.

Without thinking, I drop from the branch and land straight on top of him, knocking him to the ground. I quickly stand, ignoring the pain in my leg, and grab the amulet before tearing off in the opposite direction. A quick glance back shows me that he's made no move to chase me. Good. I hope I knocked his brain hard; I cannot, under any circumstances, have a Peacekeeper be able to identify me. That would be very, _very _bad.

I hike my hood up over my face to prevent any further recognition and just in time too. There's another shout from behind me and suddenly the tree just ahead of me explodes in a mess of bark. A new level of panic grips me as I veer away from the tree and bolt further into the orchard. Sure, I've been chased by Peacekeepers before, but never ones with _guns_. My only hope is to stay in the trees and hope they can't get a good shot with the obstacles in the way.

Another blast rings in my ears, and this time I can only hear the bullet hit the tree. It must have been behind me. I swivel around behind a wide trunk and pause to take a breath, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me worries that I'll have to stay hiding in the trees forever, but I know better than that. There's a reason they can't just whip out their guns in town; they may be heartless but even they would get in trouble if they accidentally shot random citizens. So I have to get back there, and then maybe when I lose them I'll have a chance to get back home safely. It's worth a shot.

_Bad choice of words, _I think, as another deafening boom sounds behind me. They must be waking people up with the noise they're making. I spring away from the tree I was hiding behind and make a mad dash towards the town. More shouts come from behind me and one more Peacekeeper tries to take a shot, but too quickly I've transitioned from being protected by the trees to protection from the wooden shacks that make up most of the houses of the citizens of District 11.

They're still coming after me though, and I never slow down as I dodge and turn through the streets of the district. One or two sleepy people peer out their window, wondering what all the commotion is about, but I breeze past them and just keep running. Soon the shouts from the Peacekeepers quieten until I can't hear them anymore. Just to make sure, I risk a look over my shoulder. No one in sight. Phew. I slow to a jog and duck into one more alleyway before allowing myself a well-deserved rest.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I spin around, coming face to face with a Peacekeeper. For a second my heart drops into my stomach as I take a step back. Then I realise who it actually is.

"Not funny Joh," I say, letting out the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Maybe you should relax a little. At this rate you'll die of stress before your next birthday." Joh's laughing brown eyes gaze and me and finally I crack a smile too. But his expression grows serious as the faint sounds of shouts reach our ears. "Was that you?"

"Yeah," I say slowly, waiting to see his reaction. I never thought Joh and I could possibly be friends; a Peacekeeper and a thief, like that'll ever work. We met when we were twelve, and after helping me out of a tight spot I decided to give the son of the Head Peacekeeper a chance. Turns out, Joh's a pretty great person to hang out with. He's not really as strict or harsh as the other Peacekeepers; he just does it because it's what his father wants. Still, I only really began to trust him a few months ago. I had been out, trying to find some more food for our family as always, and when I'd gotten back home I'd found Joh sitting there with a black eye and my sister Penny sleeping restlessly on the couch. It hadn't taken him long to explain what had happened. How some of the Peacekeepers are more than just the heartless people we think they are. Some of them are absolute monsters who will take advantage of young fifteen year-old girls because they can. I was so shocked and mad, and the Peacekeeper and myself. I hadn't been there when she'd needed me. Fortunately Joh had been, and he'd heard the screaming from the man's house and had rushed in there to see what was going on. We'd all thought he'd gotten there quick enough, he'd saved her in time, that the only lasting damage would be the emotional scars she'd have from the encounter. It wasn't until a few weeks later we found out she was pregnant.

So after that, I'd actually started to begin trusting him, seeing him as more of a friend and less of a Peacekeeper. At seventeen, technically he's still too young for the job, but when your father is the boss he can pull a few strings for you. I've often asked Joh why he does it (he's definitely not the type of person who enforces the law, shooting or whipping criminals into behaving) but he just vaguely answers that it makes his dad happy.

My stealing still bothers him though. He knows why I do it, but I think he still feels like it's wrong. That and he might be worried that if I ever get caught, it may come down to Joh standing by his father, or his friend. A trickle of fear runs through me as I remember the first Peacekeeper, the one who caught a glimpse of my face. But he could never recognise me. Even if he remembered anything, there's thousands of citizens in District 11. He'd never be able to pick me out in a crowd. Right?

"Just . . ." Joh struggles to find the words. "Be more careful next time."

I nod and wave goodbye as I head for home, staying clear of the main streets just in case. But no more problems arrive as I make it to our own little hovel near the edges of town. I reach my hand into my pocket and feel the apples resting in there. Well, we'll eat well today, that's for sure. Maybe I should grab something special later for after the reapings, since it's my sister Erina's first one and I'm sure she's scared. But something tells me that today, I really shouldn't push my luck.

* * *

><p><strong>Emerald Marsh<strong>

The chattering sound of many voices talking awakens me from my slumber. I look at the clock and sigh, knowing I won't be able to go back to sleep. But the voices are a good sign; it means my parents must still be around.

Though they were supposed to have the day off. Even Mayor Amber Marsh and her husband, Mason Marsh, the man who oversees all exports from our district to the Capitol, should be entitled to one day off, right? But as always, they've got something to do.

I yawn and slowly climb out of bed before heading downstairs to where my mother, father, and a few Peacekeepers are talking quickly.

". . . fourth time this month . . ."

". . . needs to be dealt with. . ."

". . . thinks he might have seen him. . ."

I sigh. Their conversation might as well be in code for all the information an average listener might glean from it, but I know better. After all, my mom's talked about nothing but this so-called thief running around District 11. They've never been able to catch him, or even see his face. And considering we're one of the most populated districts in Panem, it's a bit hard to narrow down the suspects. I don't really care who it is; I just want the Peacekeepers to finally catch him so they can stop dragging my mom away for work all the time.

My father turns in the midst of putting on his jacket and sees me. "Hey Emmi," he says, using the nickname he's had for me since I was little. "We're going to be heading out for a bit, okay?"

Of course, "a bit" usually translates to "the whole morning." And since this afternoon my mother has to make her speech at the reapings, I can tell I won't be seeing my parents again until tonight.

One of the Peacekeepers is staring at me intently. "Just like those eyes."

"What?" My mother asks.

"Leigh says he saw the thief's face. Apparently he had green eyes, just like those." He gestures to my own vibrant emerald orbs that are my namesake. Few people in District 11 have such eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," my mother scoffs, and I put my hands on my hips, imitating her manner. Is this man seriously suggesting that I might be the thief? That's insane, and a good way for him to lose his job. "Come on, let's go."

Everyone begins to leave the house and my father turns back to me just before he walks out the door. "We love you Emmi," he says, then grins. "Well, if you were the thief, you'd have quite a bit of trouble concealing your hair, wouldn't you?"

I smile and finger my long, red curls, laughing at the thought of me trying to be the thief. Other than the fact that I can't sit still, my inability to remain quiet may make any attempt at staying hidden pointless. My dad must be thinking along the same lines because he gives me a wink before closing the door and leaving me alone in our house.

What to do, what to do? I wander back up to my room and peer into the big glass tank sitting on my desk. Inside it is one very fat, very lazy frog named Ali. I still remember the fight my parents and I got into when I brought her home and asked to keep her. Another smile creeps onto my face as I remember that day David and I found the pond. We couldn't have been more than eight.

"_Wow," I breathed, looking around at the sparkling water and the beautiful flowers that lined it. "This place is . . . amazing."_

"_I told you so," David said, arms spread out as he showed off the little pond he'd found like it was his own._

"_We should take something," I said. "To remember this place."_

"_Okay. You find something for me and I'll find something for you."_

_The two of us scrambled around, trying to find something good to give the other. What do boys even like? I wondered. I couldn't give him a flower, he'd laugh. Then what?_

_That was when I saw it. Shining just below the surface of the water, a bright blue stone with flecks of silver shimmering in the sun. I reached down and pulled it out. Perfect. It was pretty, and neat, but it was still a rock. Boys liked rocks. I headed back over to David, who was holding something behind his back with one hand._

"_Here," I said, giving him the rock._

"_It's alright," he said, pretending like it was nothing. But I could see in his eyes that he liked it. "But my present's better."_

"_What is it?" I asked. It's a flower, I thought. One of those beautiful red ones that were growing right near the banks of the pond. It had to be._

"_Close your eyes."_

_I did what he said and waited, nearly shaking from excitement. I could hear David's coat rustle as he moved closer and held the present in front of my face._

"_Now open them!"_

_The world bloomed into view again and for a moment my eyes tried to focus on what was in front of me. It was a. . . _

"_Ribbit."_

"_Don't you like it?" David said mockingly, waving it in front of my face. He seemed determined to get a squealing girl reaction out of me. Well, he was going to be very disappointed._

"_I love it," I said, taking it from him and holding it in my hand. "And I'm going to ask Mom to let me keep it."_

"_You're lying," he said, following me away from the pond as I strode back home. "You think it's gross."_

"_I think you're gross."_

I smile and turn away from Ali. David followed me all the way home that day, not believing that I would keep the frog. He was pretty surprised that day. I've always wondered if he still kept my rock. I'll have to ask him today. He probably didn't, it was just a rock after all. Strange, I feel like I would be disappointed if I knew he hadn't kept it. They were tokens of our friendship, the rock and the frog. I've held on to mine for five years. Hopefully he had too.

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian<strong>

"Don't worry Erina, it's going to be fine."

"We never know anyone who gets reaped."

"The odds are entirely in your favour."

Penny and I try to comfort our younger sister as we walk to the square with her and our mother but our words do little to lessen her fears. I can understand, my first reaping I thought for sure I was going to die. I wouldn't say it gets easier as the years go on, but it certainly gets easier to hide your fear.

We reach the square and the four of us separate into our own sections, or, in my mother's case, the crowd of onlookers. Since District 11 is so huge, most people who are just there to watch the reapings are immediately pushed out to the streets, since the square is barely large enough to hold all the children of the district. I give my name and head over to join Joh and our other friend Catel in our section just as the mayor's speech begins, but I'm pulled aside before I can reach them.

I look over at whoever pulled me aside, wondering if maybe it's another one of less close friends, but my heart stops. Two Peacekeepers are staring down at me, and I have to work hard not to swallow or rub my hands together or do something else that might make them think I'm guilty of something.

"What's your name?"

I hesitate for a second but really there's no way for me to refuse and still sound innocent. "Dylian Carte."

"We'd like to ask you some questions." I nod in response, hoping that it's not what I'm thinking, that maybe it's just some sort of routine reaping survey or something. "Have you heard about the recent thefts that have been happening throughout the district?"

"Um, yes," I say, trying to keep my voice level. With a start I realise that my amulet, which I'd fixed when I'd gotten back home, is still around my neck. It's hidden underneath my shirt but all it would take is for one of them to recognise the frayed rope and then I'd be screwed.

"Do you have any knowledge of the culprit behind these thefts?"

"No, but if I did, you people would be the first to know," I say, trying to grin. They just stare stonily back. I notice that one of them seems very fixated on my eyes. My green eyes. My really, really rare for District 11 green eyes.

I'm dead meat.

In the back of my mind I can hear the mayor's speech finish and the escort walking onto the stage to start us off with reaping the boy tribute, but I barely register it. The two Peacekeepers are focused intently on me, and one takes a step forwards.

"No one has ever been able to get a good look at the thief," he begins menacingly.

"Y-you don't say?" I swallow, probably showing them even more reasons why I'm guilty, but as this point it doesn't matter. I'm caught; I'm really going to be caught.

"Until today a Peacekeeper happened to get a glance of his face. He had green eyes. A rare occurrence in District 11, don't you think."

"Um, well, I-"

"Dylian Carte!"

I freeze as another voice hits my ear. I turn to see the escort holding a slip of paper looking out over the crowd. Did she just call my name?

Her shout doesn't have the same effect on the Peacekeepers. "We've finally got you," one growls, grabbing my wrist and shaking me out of my stupor.

"Wait, wait, she called my name."

This gets a reaction out of the two men. I can see they're thinking back to when I told them who I was.

"Dylian Carte?" the escort asks again, craning her neck to see if anyone is coming forwards.

The Peacekeepers look at each other, trying to decide what to do. I take the opportunity to slip away from them and head up to the stage. "That's me," I tell the escort, who looks relieved to finally have found her tribute.

"Oh good," she says, before moving on to the girls. I'm just thinking how lucky I was to get reaped when my brain stops in its tracks. Did I really just say I was lucky to get reaped?

And suddenly a wave of new thoughts comes crashing down on me. I was reaped. I'm going into the Hunger Games. I'm going to die. My family will die without my support. I won't get to see my friends again. What is Penny going to do without me? She needs support, she needs help. And Erina, it was her first reaping. And my mother, so kind and caring. All of them rely on me. But I can't help them anymore. I'm going into the Hunger Games.

I'm going to my death.

* * *

><p><strong>Emerald<strong>

I examine the boy who was just reaped. I don't think I know him from anywhere, but then again, that's not a surprise. Our district is huge.

"Who is he?" Lilly Farsly, one of my best friends asks.

I shrug in response. Really, the two of us are just happy it's not one of Lilly's brothers or David. He's barely a year older than us, but even with only one more slip than the two Lilly and I both have it's enough to make us worry for him. But he's safe. Now we just have to make it through the girls' reapings.

The escort walks over to the other identical reaping ball and digs her hand in. I watch her slowly drag the slip out and part of me wants to scream at her to hurry up. The tension is getting to me; I've always hated the reapings, having to stand in one spot surrounded by millions of other people. I start bouncing on my heels slightly to get rid of some of my nervous energy.

"Emerald Marsh!"

I stop mid-bounce and stare at the woman. Was that really my name that just came out of her mouth? But if must have been, for everyone in the crowd is murmuring. They all know that name, the name of the Mayor's daughter. So it must be me.

I clench my jaw and begin the long walk to the stage, the crowd parting for me as I go. Whatever I do, I just have to act confident. Just like the day at the pond with David. I didn't show my fear; I pretended otherwise and ended up with a new pet. It wasn't so bad. Of course, pretending the Hunger Games aren't that bad is far tougher than pretending a frog isn't that gross.

But I make it to the stage without showing a crack in my façade and quietly stand next to my district partner. I sneak a glance at him and regret it; the look on his face is pained and devastated, mirroring my thoughts inside. It almost makes me want to break down. But I don't, I stand tall and strong as the escort finished her little speech and the anthem plays. All I have to do is believe. I can do this, I can win the Games. I may not be as strong as a Career or have the brains of someone from District 3, but I never back down from a fight. I stare out over the crowd, over the district towards the horizon. I have the determination to win these Games. And I will.


	13. District 12: Average Yet Extraordinary

_**Final reapings everyone! Who's excited? *raises both hands in the air* Yeah! Alright, so I decided again to change up the format, since 12 reapings are a lot to go through. So these ones will start during the goodbyes and sort of flashback to the reapings.**_

_**So, without further ado, the last two tributes by FinnickSugarCube and Phantasia515!**_

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><p><strong>Malia Endal<strong>

Where did I go wrong?

All my life I've maintained a very average living. No one wants an average tribute in the Hunger Games, right? The girl from our district last year was pregnant! The year before that, there was a blind tribute. The Capitol wants a show; they want action, drama, tributes with devastating backgrounds. Or at the very least, tributes who are appealing to look at. But that didn't stop our blue-haired escort from drawing my name.

I stare at myself in the mirror hanging on the wall, a shining, clear sheet of glass that could never be found in our own home. Normal brown hair, average blue eyes, a permanent bump on my nose from where I broke it two years ago. Who would want to watch me on live TV? Shayne believes the reapings are completely random, but I've always disagreed. There are always interesting tributes in the Games; they have to be entertaining, after all.

So what does that mean for me? Just another tribute, even more expendable than most. And what is the bloodbath for if not to get rid of all the expendable, uninteresting kids?

_Stop it Malia, _I scold myself, trying to repress the wave of panic rising within me. _Those kinds of thoughts aren't going to do you any good._ But try as I might, I can't stop worrying.

Thankfully the door to my room in the Justice Building opens, and I no longer have time to think as my family surges in. Mother, Father, my little brother Pawsely. Words aren't necessary; I merely come towards them and as if our minds are connected we all know what to do. Mom sits down with me on the couch, calmly stroking my hair while my Pawsley sits beside us and my father clasps my hand. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago I was going about the day as any other. Waking up, tending to the small herd of sheep our family raises to supply the district tailor, hanging out with Shayne, Heather and Blue before crowding in with the other sixteen year-olds for the ceremony. Every year the same, the only thing that changes are the names the escort calls. But this year, one name was enough to change my life forever.

We continue to sit like this for as long as the Peacekeepers allow, the need for something more never present. I don't need a pep talk from my family; I can bet I'll be getting one from my friends. What I need is to be calmed and comforted, so I can pretend if only for a moment that this isn't happening.

Of course moments are but moments, and soon we have to part. Suddenly the panic returns; I'm not ready yet, not ready to say goodbye to my family members for what will probably be the last time. Never to see my kind, caring mother, my awkward yet loveable father, my excitable, happy go lucky brother. How can anyone prepare for something like that? I find myself reaching out and grabbing my mother's arm, despite the Peacekeepers' attempts to escort them out. And I feel like I'm six, not sixteen when I choke out, "Mom."

She gives me another hug that diminishes my fears slightly. I know that this time is allotted for your family to say their goodbyes and to tell their tribute one last time "I love you." But my family's smart; they know that in saying those things, it finalises the fact that we may very well never see each other again. So instead as they're herded out the door my father calls back to me, "_Aurevoir _Malia!" with a warm smile before he disappears.

I can't help but smile, even though I'm alone once more. _Aurevoir_. It's something of an inside joke amongst our family. My father may keep sheep for a living, but one of his passions is dead languages. "The French had it right," he always used to say. "Where is the good in goodbye? No, better to say _aurevoir_. Until we meet again." And that's what I feel as I sit alone in the room, infinitely more relaxed than I was earlier. I'm not saying goodbye; I'm saying _aurevoir_. I will see my family again.

The sturdy oak door opens once more to reveal three teenagers of varying ages, as different in looks as in personalities, all entering the room at once. I can't help but stand and run to them and we all hug in the middle of the room. But unlike with my family, they're not just here for reassuring gestures. They're here to make sure I make it through the Games.

"You have to get some allies Malia," Blue says, her normally smiling expression replaced by one of earnest determination.

"Train hard with the weapons; pick up some new skills."

"Anticipate anything in the arena."

"Find a water source as quickly as you can."

"Don't eat what you can't identify."

"And win for us," Heather says, in the quiet way she has. I'm torn between laughing and crying at them all and their rapid fire bits of advice and I end up doing a mixture of both. Instead of leading me to a couch we all sit in a circle, like we used to do when we were younger.

"You'll get through this Malia; you're tough enough to win," Shayne says, looking me straight in the eye. I nod and he places his hand palm up in the center of the circle. Blue makes a small fist and puts it on top. Then Heather rests her palm over and finally I place the heel of my hand on the very top, fingers reaching upwards. It's our thing, something the four of us have done for as long as I can remember.

Something flies out of Shayne's other hand and twirls around my fingers. It's a small golden locket, with a tiny heart on the end of the shimmering chain. I hold it in my hands, confused. "Your token," he says.

Inside is a small picture of him, as well as a white clump of fur I know to be my dog, Benson's. I adore all animals, but my love for Benson can border sometimes on an obsession. My parents made it clear when we got him that it was me who wanted the dog and therefore me who would have to take care of him. And I did ever since.

"Could have at least put a picture of all of us in there," Blue says as she peers over my shoulder at it.

"I don't think your big head would have fit in," he retorts.

I can't help but laugh at my friends antics. It helps me feel a little less worried about today. "Thank you," I whisper. "All of you," I say louder and we go in for one last group hug before the Peacekeepers are taking them out. And just like that, I'm alone again. Though not for long, soon I'm escorted out of the Justice Buildings. My goodbyes are over and it's time to board the train. But they're not goodbyes, I think as I walk out on the platform. They're aurevoirs. Until we meet again.

* * *

><p><strong>Noah James<strong>

"You have to win Noah, you have to!"

"I will, don't worry, I will."

After all, how could I say anything different as I look into the innocent green eyes, so like my own, or my younger brother Gabriel. He stares up at me from his place on the couch, truly believing what I say, that I can win the Games. A gaze that differs from my parents who, though they're trying to believe I'll win, I can see the pain in their eyes as they go through what they thought they'd never have to; losing a child to the reapings. But if it had to happen, I'm glad it's me and not Gabriel that's going in. I'm seventeen, tall and strong, I might actually stand a chance in the Games. But Gabriel, younger by ten years and with a permanently poor health condition, I don't even want to think what would happen to him.

As if on cue, he lets out a deep, wracking cough. I look at him, concerned, but he just smiles. "I'm fine. You should worry about yourself."

I smile and nod, reverting back to my normal, quiet self. We hug once more as the Peacekeepers re-enter the room.

"Time's up," one says curtly.

"Give us a few more minutes," I say, more sharply than I intended it to be.

He glares at me and opens his mouth to retort but my mother interjects. "It's alright Noah," she says, hugging me. "You'll be fine."

But it's not me I'm worried about. What about my little brother? I've been there for him ever since he was born, protecting him from those who might aim to tease or harm him. What will he do without me? "Take care of him," is all I say back to her, and she nods. I hug her again as well as my father before bending down on one knee and looking Gabriel straight in the eye. "Be careful," I tell him.

He nods quickly. "You be careful too." He breaks into a grin. "And when you win, we'll throw the biggest party in the whole district!"

I smile. "You bet we will."

I hug him one last time before the Peacekeeper clears his throat, making it apparent that they have to leave now. I watch as they slowly exit, Gabriel turning and waving to me one last time before the door shuts behind him.

The room is empty now, save me and one other Peacekeeper who stands guard by the other end. I wait for them to come and usher me to the train; I know that I have no one else to say goodbye to now. There's something about my intimidating height, or maybe just my personality, that scares people off. So I don't have many friends in the district. Which means making allies is going to be hard. _I don't need allies, _I think to myself. _Only one of us can win anyways_. But even as I'm thinking it I'm contemplating how much nicer it might be if I had someone to watch my back in the arena. No, I can't get ideas like that. I'll play the Games alone and I'll win alone.

"Are we going?" I ask the Peacekeeper, tired of waiting for him to move.

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"The other tribute isn't finished with her goodbyes."

I can feel some of the heat rising to my face. "She's still with her family?" He shrugs as though he doesn't know who's in there and he doesn't really care. "So how come I couldn't have more time with mine?"

"Each tribute only gets an allotted amount of time with each group of people," he says, sounding as though he's reciting it, like something he was forced to memorise a long time ago.

I remember my district partner, Malia something. I've seen her around the district before, always hanging around with the same three people. So she must have friends to part with as well. But that isn't fair. Just because I have less people doesn't mean I should get less time to say goodbye. "Let my family back in," I say quietly. He looks at me in disbelief then snorts and turns his head away. I can feel the anger coursing through my veins now, my blood boiling red-hot and furious. Part of my brain is issuing a warning: starting a fight with a Peacekeeper is a good way to get yourself in a lot of trouble. But I ignore it, and I can feel my hands clenching into fists. The man has abandoned his attempt at ignoring me and is staring, a small smirk on his face as though he can't believe what I might try to do. It only serves to aggravate me more and I start forwards, ready to demand more time with my family when Gabriel's words echo through my ears. _You have to win Noah_. And fighting with the Capitol men will only serve to mark me as a target, a troublesome tribute the Gamemakers should kill off early. I turn on my heels and head over to the couch where I sink onto the comfy cushions, closing my eyes and attempting to forget all about the Peacekeeper and my anger and the Games. Just _rest_. . .

My thoughts float around and turn to this morning, a day like any other Reaping Day. Who could have guessed that it would have turned out so differently? I sigh and sink lower into the folds of material. Oddly enough, I find myself wondering what the other tribute, Malia, is wondering. Did it come as as much of a surprise for her as it did me? I think so; the look on her face when she was reaped said it all. It isn't good to show how scared you are when they draw your name; it marks you out as a target. I carefully concealed any emotion from my face as I walked to the stage. Truth be told, I didn't really feel anything at that point. Not scared, angry, sad, certainly not happy. But as I reached the stage and found Gabriel in the crowd, the feeling of nervousness and worry grew as I wondered what might happen to him while I was gone?

_Don't worry_, I think to myself, not meant to be reassuring but as more of a command. _If all goes well, you'll only be gone for a little while. And all will go well. It has to._

Finally the Peacekeeper announces that we're boarding the train and I follow him dutifully this time, putting up no more resistance. I can't fight or argue with these men if I'm going to win the Games; afterwards I can do whatever I want. But for now, my sole focus can be winning. For Gabriel.


	14. A Career's Train of Thought

_**So we are officially done the reapings! Yay! From here on out, the Capitol chapters will be sort of a mash up of different tributes POVs. Who's POV it is really just depends on who I think will be interesting during the chapter. Also, the poll to see who should die in the bloodbath is up on my profile, so please check it out and vote for who you want to die (that sounds awful, doesn't it). **_

_**Oh, and if any of you would be willing to check out a new Hunger Games story I've posted called "Suspects" I'd be very grateful :)**_

_**Thanks to Theonechance who kindly supplied me with enough mentors and stylists to get me through these chapters. You rock!**_

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><p><strong>C<strong>**ordelia Schylla, District 1 Female**

The train is even more than I could have possibly imagined. Often my family has lingered on the platform as we see my father off, but its sleek, silvery outside can in no way prepare you for the grandness of the inside. As soon as I step inside I can't help but stare in awe at everything. Don't get me wrong, our house it beautiful, but the train is so neat! I wish Caspian and Bree could see it now. _But they'll get to in a year_, I think, grinning as I remember our plan.

The beds are so soft and fluffy, for awhile all I do is just sit and bounce on them. Yes, I'm probably acting like I'm six, not sixteen, but I can't help it; the excitement of the Games is getting to me. Soon enough though, it's time for dinner and as I enter the dining car a wave of delectable scents envelops me. I've never been one to complain about Mom's cooking, but the Capitol food is just _amazing_. I dig right in, as everyone else follows suit except one mentor, Splendor Gold who just stares at Achilles and I from her seat across the table.

"So I'm going to assume the two of you have both been trained?" she asks, her harsh, icy blue eyes boring into me. She may be the youngest victor here, just in her early twenties, but she seems to like getting straight down to business.

I nod right away and after a moment, Achilles does too. "Well then, at the very least the two of you should be able to make it past the bloodbath alive," she says, leaning back in her chair and gazing at us as though wondering if her words will provoke some sort of reaction.

It certainly gives me something to think about and for a moment I pause in the effort of trying to get pasta rolled onto my fork. I'd never even stopped to think about the bloodbath before. Is there any sort of chance that I might die in it? And for a moment, almost as though someone has pulled a curtain back from my eyes, giving me a clear view of the Hunger Games for the first time; it not fun or entertaining, but rather a huge, looming monster, intent on killing everything in sight. Why would I volunteer to go near such a thing?

But the moment is gone in a flash. It's not that awful; it's just a game. After all, that's why they call it the Hunger Games. And in this game, I'm going to win for sure, right?

I bite my lip, not liking the plague of uncertainty that's washed over me. Is this how the other tributes must feel, the ones who aren't from Career districts, the ones who were forced to go into these Games? But I'm not like them, I've trained, I have much more of a chance of winning then they do. Self-consciously I rub the charm bracelet Bree and Caspian bought me for my token. They believe I can win and I did too a few hours ago. Why do I feel so different now?

My dad must have noticed my unease because he quickly begins to respond to Splendor's stinging comments. "Cori is one of the most prepared children in the district," he says coldly. "She never misses with the bow and arrow, she's fast, she's intelligent and in a five against one fight she'd still come out on top." He turns away from the young mentor and gives me a warm smile which I return. I know he must be thinking about this morning's training session. I mean, sure I didn't beat them all, but in fairness that dummy had a gun. I can't remember a single set of Games where they've had firearms in the arena.

"Achilles has trained with nearly every weapon at his disposal," Zeus Dynamos, his godfather, puts in. "He excels at knives, tridents and archery," he adds, giving me a sideways look. "Plus there's not a tribute in history who's stronger than he is."

I glance over at my district partner and I get the feeling that his godfather isn't kidding. He's taller and more muscular than most people I've seen down at the training gym, and honestly he looks like the perfect leader for the Careers. Which he'll probably end up being.

"So what you two are saying is that we have two nearly perfect tributes here," Splendor says with a smirk. "But only one can win the Hunger Games."

There's a tense few moments as the true meaning of her words sink in. It's nothing I didn't already know, of course, but still, I'd forgotten that to get out of the arena alive, Achilles would be going home in a cold wooden coffin. The thought bothers me, but it's true. I wish there was another way, but the fact of the matter is there can only be one winner of the Hunger Games.

My father and Zeus have locked eyes, a cold wall of competition building quickly between the two. Obviously Dad doesn't want his only daughter to die and though Zeus and Achilles may not be related, I feel like the older mentor wouldn't want the closest thing he has to a son gone either.

"Let's not worry about that right now. " Another mentor breaks the strained silence, a man by the name of Spinel August. To be honest, I was expecting him to be the harsher one, considering how he slit the throats of his fellow Careers when there were only a few tributes left in his Games. I'd seen him at a distance, like all the other District 1 mentors, but I've never talked to him before. There's something very firm in his tone of voice, and combined with the fact that he's the oldest mentor at the table, he manages to snap my father and Zeus out of their thoughts. They agree quickly with him and everyone hurries to finish their dinner. I notice Splendor open her mouth to say something, but after Spinel shoots her a look she falls into a reluctant silence.

"Shall we go watch the recap of the reapings?" our escort, Lylie asks as everyone finishes up. I nod, my excitement for the Games returning at the thought of seeing my competition. In my haste to get up from the table, I accidentally knock the glass of orange juice I'd been drinking over, spilling its contents onto our escort's shimmering white reaping dress. "What have you done?" she shrieks, desperately grabbing for a napkin and trying to dab it off. I try to look guilty and ashamed, but it's hard not to laugh at the gigantic deal she's making of this. "My dress is ruined!"

"Well, seeing as you have a whole train car just for your wardrobe, replacing it shouldn't be that hard," Julius, another mentor, comments, making no effort to conceal his grin. The rest of us file into the other room to watch the recaps while our escort runs off to change, wailing about her "one of a kind" dress so much that I actually start to feel bad about it, but Julius just pulls me aside and whispers, "I did the same thing when I was going into my Games." He gives me a wink and then goes to the couch where the other mentors are sitting. I smile, glad that not all of the mentors are as cold as Splendor or as intimidating as Spinel. Taking my spot beside Achilles, I sit down to watch the reapings, to know the faces of my competitors. But unfortunately for them, they won't be winning this thing. I will.

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><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

_I didn't even get to say goodbye._

The thought haunts me as I sit down with the rest of the District 4 team (Meredith, our escort and the mentors), pretending to be paying attention to the reapings. I only woke up around an hour ago to find that I was already in my room on the train, my district far behind me. Each tribute is supposed to have an allotted time with their loved ones to say goodbye. Supposed to. Apparently, unlike the Reapings, it's not a requirement.

The Capitol seal flashes on the screen and the recap begins. I cast a sideways glance at Meredith, whose attention is fully focused on the television. She's not visibly taking notes, but I can tell that she'll be applying each detail of every tribute to memory, calculating fellow Careers, the biggest threats, the weak kids who will just end up dying off on their own. I realise that I should probably be following suite. After all, if I didn't get to say talk one last time with my family before the Games, I'll have to come home and see them again.

So I attempt to pull myself from my miserable thoughts of home and instead concentrate on the reapings being shown before me. One and two are our fellow Career districts, and they all look like they'll do well in the pack. I'm surprised when no one volunteers for the girl from 2; normally that district has even more volunteers than one. I wonder if there's a story behind that?

Three's tributes seem pretty typical; at the very least, they're not threats. Then comes our reapings and I feel the cold seed of sadness growing inside me as I watch myself volunteer for Sandrine. Our escort mutters something from his position in the armchair nearest the table, but once again his gullet is so crammed with food I can't hear what he says. Instead I stay glued to the screen, watching Meredith volunteer, the escort pronouncing us the two tributes of District 4, the expression on my face dropping quickly from relief to fear. The Peacekeepers take us away and though they don't show it, I remember vividly what happens next. As if on cue the spot on my back where they stunned me with their electrical device tingles, sending tiny waves of pain up my body. But much worse is the pain in my heart as I hear my sister's shouts from the crowd. What must they be doing now? I think. We'd planned to tell everyone the good news after the reapings. Did she even bother, or were they all too overcome with sadness to bother celebrating?

I squeeze my eyes shut tight, trying to get the images of my distraught family out of my head, and when I open them all I see is the questioning stare of my district partner. I shrug like it was nothing and we both turn back to the screen in time to watch District 6's tributes get chosen. Even in my mood, I still manage to register how different this district's reapings are from the rest. The escort announces that there's been a boy who apparently has managed to avoid the reapings and as a result he's been pre-picked to go into the Games. They drag him to the stage and I can't help but wonder how someone so frail-looking has managed to evade the Capitol for so long. But it doesn't matter; by the looks of him he's most certainly not a threat.

The boy tribute from Seven, however, is a different story. Tall and muscular, he could easily be a Career if he wanted too. I look at Meredith again, wondering what she thinks, but her eyes are still watching the screen, analysing every inch of the tribute. I guess we'll see how much of a threat he really is in training.

Eight is nothing special, but for the second time during the reapings I feel sadness in my heart as the girl from Nine is reaped. Imogen Torrini her name is, and judging by the long, drawn-out cry of "Mommy!" that occurs when her name is called, it sounds like she has a family too. I'm reminded of Sandrine instantly; is that what it would have been like for her, if her child had already been born? It's so awful, and I feel sorry for this tribute, I really do, especially since I know that in order for myself to come home safe to my mother and father, sisters and nieces and nephews, she has to die in the arena. But that isn't the end of the memories this district brings me as the boy tribute, Damon McAwny's name is called and someone steps forwards calmly to volunteer for him. The tribute reaches the stage and the escort asks his name, to which he replies, "Carlisle McAwny," in a sort of far-away tone that suggests this tribute isn't all there mentally. So he must have been the reaped boy's brother; more family members risking their lives to save their loved ones.

_I can't take this, _I think, getting up from the couch and, despite the escort's protests, leaving the room and heading to my compartment, where I collapse onto the bed. All the recaps do is help us get to know our opponents, but what if we don't _want _to know about them? How can I come home knowing that Imogen with a daughter and Carlisle with a brother and even the District 6 girl, Catherine, who looked no more than twelve but volunteered to save what must have been her friend, how can I come home knowing all those people died, all those kids with families and friends. Just like me.

"Seel's not too happy that you ran out on the recap." I look up from my position sprawled on the bed and see Meredith standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and what might be a slight grin on her face.

"Seel?"

"Our escort."

"Oh." I pause, surprised at how I satisfied I feel that I upset our pompous Capitol companion. "Good. And Seel's a stupid name."

Meredith shrugs. "He's a stupid man."

I look at her closely, curious as to how casually she said that, as though she was stating a fact. Normally if I call someone stupid, you can most definitely hear the anger and hate for them in my voice. But Meredith's tone is very measured and calm, giving off almost no hint of emotion. "So what do you want?" I ask, more sharply then I intended. But the venom in my words doesn't faze her.

"Well I was slightly curious as to why you left," she says, pulling over a chair that sits by the desk and relaxing into it. "Although you didn't miss much. Ten, Eleven and Twelve are all pathetic."

"Do you always talk like that?" I ask, sitting up and resting my back against the wall.

"Like what?"

"I don't know like, like . . ." I gesture with my hands, trying to find the words with which to voice my thoughts. "Like you don't really feel anything about anyone," I finish.

She thinks for a bit. "I guess so. It's true, but I suppose that it might be best if I tried to show some sort of emotion, especially during the interviews so I might be able to get more sponsors-"

"Stop, just stop," I say, cutting her off. I'm a but shocked at my rudeness, I know for certain my mother wouldn't approve, but seeing as I'm going to my death I really couldn't care less. She looks at me, her eyes narrowing as though she's trying to find an explanation for my words. "So you don't care about killing any of these people at all?"

"Perrin, I volunteered. Of course I don't. You on the other hand seem to have forgotten the prime objective of the Hunger Games when you offered yourself up as a tribute."

"I didn't- I don't want to-" I stop; there's really no use trying to talk to her. "Look, I'm tired, I'll see you in the morning alright?"

She understands that the conversation is done and gets up to leave. "Just remember that in the Career Pack, any weak links will have to be abolished immediately," she says right before exiting. I stare at her and she holds my gaze before disappearing out into the hall.

_Weak links_. That's what she thinks I am? Well maybe I don't want to be part of her stupid Career Pack anyways.

I shake my head as soon as the thought enters my mind. No, I need the Careers. Only with them can I get far in these Games. She's right, I did forget the prime objective of the Hunger Games when I volunteered. I was only thinking about saving my sister. But that's alright, because thoughts of her are also going to be the thing that motivates me to win and ultimately, the thing that brings me home safely home to her.


	15. The Glorious Capitol

_**Hooray for more Capitol scenes! Anything but those reapings :)**_

_**Don't forget to vote on the bloodbath poll that can be found on my profile!**_

_**And again, thanks to Theonechance who created Bree's stylist!**_

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><p><strong>Ram Underhill, District 3 Male<strong>

I thought the train was fancy. I mean, delicious food, huge bedrooms, what more could you ask for, right? But when the Capitol slowly comes into view, I can't help but stare at it in amazement. This next week is definitely going to be fantastic.

"What are the two of you looking at?" our escort asks as Sparkie and I both stop chowing down on breakfast to gape at the huge, colourful buildings, the streets lined with vehicles, the people dressed in all sorts of weird and different ways that are coming into view through the window. She turns to look, not understanding why it's so mesmerising to us. "It's just the Capitol," she says, turning back to her food as she attempts once more to hold her fork with her tail. Seriously, that thing has been the only downside of my trip so far. It's just so freaking _creepy_.

"It's like something out of a fairytale," Sparkie whispers, still gazing at the wondrous city. I don't know if that's exactly how I'd describe the Capitol, but it certainly does look magical. "When are we arriving?"

"Should only take a few more minutes," our only mentor says, wiping a few bread crumbs from his beard. Not exactly the typical sort of victor you'd expect from a place like District 3, Daen Lals looks like he'd have done well in the Career Pack. Which I hear is how he won the Games; stuck around with the toughest opponents, helping to kill them off and then outsmarting them all when they were about to turn on him. Apparently he's just as smart as he is strong, which made him an excellent tribute. "Make sure the two of you are at the front of the train soon to disembark."

Sparkie and I nod and head to our separate rooms. I've just closed the door of mine when I realise that there actually wasn't really a point in me coming back here. I didn't bring anything with me to the Games; I don't even have a token, which might bother some, but for me it's just one extra thing to worry about in the arena. I'm probably better off without one.

I exit my room quickly, barely containing my excitement that we're so close to the city. If our rooms were that nice on the train, imagine how amazing they'll be when we actually settle into the Capitol! I contemplate that for a while, trying to come up with some sort of image of what my new room might look like, but in all honestly I can't. The Capitol just exceeds every possible idea my imagination ever comes up with.

After a few moments of just staring out the window some more, I'm joined by Sparkie, who's clutching a book tightly to her chest. "Is that your token?" I ask, looking at the cover, which is decorated by a knight wielding a sword at a ferocious dragon. Seems somewhat interesting, but I never felt the urge to read much when I was younger.

She looks at me for a second and shakes her head. "No, this is." She tugs at the thin bracelet around her wrist that I hadn't noticed before. It looks like a piece of wire coiled around and around to make the little trinket. "Why, do you think they'd let me take this into the arena with me?" she asks, gesturing to the book hopefully. I shrug, not really knowing the answer. "Where's your token?"

"I don't have one."

"Oh," she says, like it's some sort of huge deal. But it's not really. During the goodbyes, Kelvin tried giving me an old pin of his, but I turned it down. Tokens bring you nothing but trouble. I shiver as I remember the one Games where a girl dropped her token, a small wooden ball, and set off the mines underneath her plate. Like I said, nothing but trouble.

Sparkie gives another little gasp and as I turn back to the window I see why. The train is slowing now, pulling us into the station and the platform is lined with hundreds of Capitol citizens, pointing and whispering at us excitedly, some even trying to take a few photos. I smile and wave at them all, eliciting a wave of giggles and cheers from them as many raise their hands to wave back. I don't know why Kelvin hates the Capitol people; they seem pretty alright.

I glance over at Sparkie, who's still staring at them in shock, as though her mind couldn't possibly fathom the idea of this many people all waiting for her. "Give them a little wave," I say encouragingly, and slowly she brings her hand up and gives it a little wiggle. The crowd hoots and hollers and Sparkie actually cracks a grin, waving with more confidence now.

"They want to see me," she says, as though she can't quite believe it.

"Yep. Cool, isn't it?" She merely nods her head in response, her eyes still focused on the crowd. Her lips move as she murmurs something, but other than "Once upon a time there was a girl named Sparkie," I don't catch the rest of it.

Daen and our escort meet us in the compartment just as the train comes to a complete stop. We're ushered onto the platform and the sound of cheers increases tenfold. My eyes are dazzled by the flashing lights of the cameras as we're led through the crowd; everyone wants to get a picture of us and I can't help but give a huge smile. I may be going to my death in a week, but I'm going to have _so _much fun here before that happens.

* * *

><p><strong>Bree Hudson, District 5 Female<strong>

I don't know what's worse; our three mentors, giving Lore and I looks of pity as though they already know we're going to die in these Games, the cheering people so eager to see our deaths that greeted us as we reached the Capitol's train platform or standing alone in a windowless white room after my prep team has gotten to me, waiting for my supposed stylist to come along. Despite what our mentors told us about going along with whatever we had to do, I refused point-blank to remove the thin, white robe I was given to wear. I don't even allow my own family to see me naked; what makes these spoiled citizens think they have the right to?

I finger the small, delicate pendant around my neck, the other thing I refused to let my prep team remove. A silver, crescent moon hangs on the edge of the silver thread, reflecting the lights from the ceiling and bouncing them around the room. My father bought it for me when I was born. It was the one thing we had in our house that hadn't been gotten by theft. And the one thing my father would never let me sell for money, no matter how hard times were.

Of course, that's not to say my mother didn't try to. Oddly enough, while my father's constant insistences that I should keep it made me want to sell it to help the family all the more, when my mother wanted me to get rid of it I flat-out refused. That didn't go over too well with her. So on my thirteenth birthday I took tessera and worked to save up enough money so it seemed as though I had sold it in order to get her off my back.

The door to the room opens, shaking me from my thoughts, and in walks the person I assume to be my stylist. Of course it's my stylist. With her dyed, candy-floss pink hair, silver skin and grayish-purple eyes, who else could she be? And then there's the fact that as soon as she sees me she breaks into a huge smile and reaches out to shake my hand. "Hi, Bree, right? My name's Delight, and I'm going to be your stylist for the 37th annual Hunger Games!"

I stare back at her, making no move to shake her hand. Normally I'm nicer around most people, but with these Capitol citizens it's just so hard.

However, Delight doesn't miss a beat, instead pretending that the whole reason she had for stretching out her arm in the first place was to examine my figure. "Well darling, I can see I won't have to do much! You look just wonderful." She gives me a smile that I don't return and walks around, taking in my body from all angles and making me feel extremely uncomfortable. I'd like to tell her to stop but I have a feeling that I'm already pushing these people to the limit by keeping my robe on, so I remain silent.

"Your hair is wonderful," she says, fingering my sandy blonde hair. It feels odd to have it just lying against my back; I always put it up at home. "The colour is absolutely . . ." she stops, and her hand moves from my hair to my back, gently tracing something. I breathe in sharply; I know what she's just spotted. Right below my right shoulder is a scar I've had for six years now. It was two nights after my father had been sentenced to death. My mother had been in an odd state; she was aware of everything around her, but she paid no attention to my brother and I, instead choosing to just go about her life as if we weren't there. Back when I still tried to make excuses for her, I thought it might have been because of how much we remind her of him. Webb has his dark hair while I inherited his shocking blue eyes. Maybe it was just too much for her.

But I stopped making excuses for her a long time ago. It took me about a month after my father's death to realise that our mother no longer cared about us. And as sad as that would seem to some people, it helped me. It was a fact and I could move on with my life knowing it, instead of lying awake at night praying and hoping that when I woke up she would be back to normal, that she would be the kind, loving mother I had once known. And each morning, I'd wake up disappointed.

"What happened here?" I almost entirely forgot that Delight was still in the room with me.

"Nothing," I say quickly. "I fell once."

She looks at me and I know she doesn't believe me. Does she want the real story? Why, just so she can fake sympathy for me? I know how these Capitol people work. They pretend to pity you, cry for tributes with sad back stories. But that doesn't stop them from sending 24 of us to the death each year.

_Mother in her room, standing and looking at what was once his side of the bed. Webb still crying in our bedroom. It was he who fell, tripped over a crate and skinned his hands and knees on the gravel road. _

"_Webb got hurt. Can you help?"_

_Nothing. No movement, no recognition that I'm there. Can she not here me?_

"_Webb needs help," I repeat louder._

"_He can take care of himself."_

_Would she even know what to do if she had come to help? It was always our father who tended to us when we were injured or sick. And my mistake was mentioning that. "Dad would come and-"_

_She whirls around, faster than I've ever seen her move, and shoves me, hard into the wall. The mirror hanging there breaks on impact, glass tinkling as it falls to the floor, one sharp piece slicing my shoulder. "I said he can take care of himself!" she shouts. Who is this woman? She's nothing like who I knew my mother to be. I could have stared at her all day in shock, but when she raises her hand again I quickly take off back to our room. The stinging of my injury barely registers as a more painful feeling takes hold of my heart. Why was my mother acting like this?_

I try to clear the memories of that night away and look my stylist in the eye. "I slipped," I say, backing up my lie to her. "It was in the winter."

She looks at me for a second longer than shrugs and continues working, discussing what she and the other stylist in charge of Lore have planned for the chariot rides. But I tune her out, still thinking about that night. How different would it have been, if my father hadn't been killed? We still would have been the happy family we once were, always talking and laughing together. My mother would still have that loving look in her eyes and Webb would be able to make more friends, instead of living in fear that they'll hurt him as his other loved ones have. And me, what impact would our old family life have on me if it was still the way it had been? Would I even have been reaped? Of course I would have, the quality of your family doesn't affect your chances of being drawn for the Hunger Games. But maybe if everything was the way it had been, the goodbyes would have been more pleasant. Sad and heartbreaking of course, but instead of just having Webb there and worrying what would happen to him now that he was alone with our mother, I would have had my whole family, murmuring words of encouragement and telling me that they love me and I can win. I would have liked that.


	16. Ride of a Lifetime

_**So here we are at the chariot rides, one of the most important Capitol scenes! Since I don't want to make you guys sit through 24 different POVs of the chariot rides (I'm not that mean) I've only picked three tributes which I thought might best do this event, and then it's summed up at the end from the POV of a random Capitol citizen so you guys can see briefly what went on with each tribute. If that makes sense :)**_

_**Also, this story has almost hit 100 reviews! AHHHHH! I'm so excited, I've never had a story even hit 50 review, let alone 100. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewd so far!**_

_**Oh, and don't forget to vote on the bloodbath poll! And since it's harder for me to decide who to kill off (the results are actually pretty well spread out) leaving a review stating who your top three tributes are might help them all stay alive :)**_

_**So anyways, I present to you all the chariot rides!**_

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><p><strong>Sparkie Jesfer, District 3 Female<strong>

_The beautiful silken material draped around her delicate shoulders, the sparkling white fabric glinting in the light. Expensive emeralds and sapphires circled around the waist and down to the hem of the dress, accentuating the girl's lovely green eyes. All in all, she looked like some sort of a princess out of a fairytale. She was Sparkie Jesfer._

_Or at least I wish she was, _I think sadly to myself, still staring at the beautiful dress the girl from District 1 gets to wear during the chariot rides. Not that my outfit isn't wonderful; it's even more elegant than anything Shimmer or Glimmer wore back home. The tight-fitting, silver bodysuit, the sharp make-up highlighting my features, my normally black, mousy hair spray-painted until it had turned a dazzling colour not unlike a pearl. But even when you take all that into account, it doesn't change the fact that I'm still dressed like a robot.

I sigh again, contemplating my awful misfortune at getting one of the oddest stylists for these Games. I'll admit, District 3 doesn't have much in terms of manufacturing objects that make for pretty clothes, but still, I'm sure they could have come up with _something _better than this. Although I begin to appreciate my costume more as my gaze wanders over to the District 9 chariot, where their tributes look like someone directly out of the rebellion, wearing camouflage with fake guns at their sides. Well, that's what you get when your district makes weapons.

I'm just trying to decide which is worse, the war costumes or the miner ones from District 12, when the sound of raised voices reaches my ears. I turn to see the two tributes from District 2 arguing loudly over by their chariot. Everyone eyes them, either curiously or reproachfully, but the two don't seem to be paying any attention whatsoever. Despite the sonorous quality to the fight, I can't make out clearly what they're saying to each other, and I'm dying to know.

"What do you think it's about?" I ask Ram, who's leaning back against the wall, tossing up a stray apple he found lying around and catching it.

"What?" He follows my gaze towards the two angry tributes. "Oh, I dunno."

"Don't you want to find out?"

He shrugs, obviously not as inquisitive as I am, and seems much more interested in the little game he's playing with the apple than the other tributes. At least, he is until the red fruit is grabbed in midair by one of our chariot's horses as it snatches it away and swallows it in one gulp. "Whoa!" he says, and proceeds to grab the bowl of sugar cubes lying nearby and start feeding the mare. I shake my head and head away from our chariot; my district partner may be two years older than me but I've really begun to question who the more mature one is. _Once upon a time there was a girl named Sparkie Jesfer who had to put up with the irksome people, including a 16 year-old boy who seemed to think. . ._

"- just angry about the tarot card reading then say so!" I pause in my path to the District 2 chariot just as the boy's angry shouts reach my ears. "You never stayed to see your last card but my grandmother says-"

"I don't give a crap what your nutcase of a nanny says," the girl retorts. I notice that though both tributes seem to hold the same level of anger and contempt for each other, the boy seems a lot more expressive with enraged gestures and such, while the girl seems more coldly furious.

"No one insults my grandmother!"

"You sure about that? Because I think I just did."

"Tributes!" A new voice yells, startling me. In comes a huge man dressed in camouflage not unlike that of the District 9 tributes. "Cease and desist!"

The tributes stop arguing immediately, though I can see the girl opening her mouth to retort. However, the stylist behind the general-like man gives a small shake of his head and she lapses into silence. She must really respect him for him to be able to get her to stop like that.

"-are about to go out into the City Circle and you two are fighting like children! I suggest you grow-up in the next two seconds or you two will find yourselves in the arena without any sponsors!" The man finishes shouting. The two teens nod, shooting each other dirty looks before edging as far away as they can from each other in the small chariot. The general was right about one thing – the District 1 chariot is already pulling out, and they're next up. Which reminds me, I'd better get back to my own chariot. I can hear the deafening roars of the crowd as the first tributes come into view and my knees start shaking slightly at the thought of being out there in front of so many people. I remember this morning on the train how nervous I was just with the mob waiting for us on the platform. But, everybody loved us there, right? So maybe this won't be so bad. After all, who could ever hate the heroine of a story?

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hickin, District 6 Male<strong>

I'm going to die. Right here, right now. I am going to die.

The roaring, the cheering, all the people rushing around as each strange vehicle pulled by huge animals that I've never seen before leaves the station where it was previously parked. I can hear one of our "stylists," as they call themselves, talking to my district partner, Catherine, as she gives me nervous side-ways glances, but their conversation is going over my head. How can I focus on two people when there's so much noise, so much colour, so many glaring lights and distractions that I can't even call up Zephyr to reassure me. Unfortunately now, if ever, is the time I need him most.

How could such a terrible world like this exist? Where people come in all sorts of odd shapes and strange colours, buildings are so tall they stretch up to the sky, and odd, long mechanisms called "trains" can move so fast that they make outside look like a blur. How is any of this possible? But it is, and it's as though each new thing I find here is specifically created to be my own personal torture. Only a few hours ago, my "stylist" wanted to do all sorts of awful things to turn me into some sort of monstrous creature like what she looked like. The thought terrified me; it's bad enough that these people have taken me from my loving parents, my safe, wonderful home, but now they want to turn me into some sort of monster like them? I started to panic, and the thought that if I panicked I might faint like I had the day before when the men dragged me out of our house worried me even more (after all, if I was unconscious who knew what these people would do to me). I guess it just ended up becoming an ever growing circle dread and the inevitable happened. I awoke what I assumed to be a few hours later, dressed in new clothes but otherwise unchanged. Catherine tried explaining to me what had happened; my stylist had decided that she couldn't do much to an unconscious body so she just put me in the sort of hospital gown that patients wear to reflect our district. I didn't really understand any of it, but the reassurance that I was still myself and not some sort of horrific demon like the rest of the people around me seemed to be was comforting.

Except Catherine, she didn't seem all that changed or altered either, which was a huge relief to me. She wore a simple white dress and had her hair tied in a bun with a white hat on top which was painted a red cross. She looked almost motherly, and she was like my anchor in this sea of chaos.

But one anchor isn't enough when the current of terror is too powerful and sweeps you away. For that is what happens to me as soon as the wooden vehicle (a "chariot" I believe someone called it) underneath me beings to move. And suddenly we're no longer in the small area with the multiple terrifying creatures; no, we're in a stadiumwith thousands upon thousands of the beasts, all screaming and shouting as though at any moment they could jump down from the stadium and claw us apart. Which I have no doubt that they would do. In fact, any moment could bring about further doom. I can't take this anymore, I want to go home, I want my parents and my bedroom, I want to be safe and away from all this danger and I just don't want to be scared anymore.

Slowly my knees begin to give and I turn so that I slump down, back resting against the front of the chariot, bringing my knees up close to my head and burying my face in them. Before I hide my eyes I see Catherine give me another odd look but she quickly turns back to the hordes of savages, giving them a shy wave. A wave! Like she's inviting them to come and tear out her heart and gnaw on her eyes.

The gruesome images flash before me and I place my hands over my ears, as if it would help, as if it could stop every single bad thing from happening. But it doesn't even dull the noise and I can still hear the cries of the crowd. I don't want to pass out again, too many bad things might happen, I could fall out of the chariot or get attacked by any one of these crazy people. I can't help it though, I can feel the calming tendrils of unconsciousness reaching out, reassuring me that they can take me away from this awful, awful place. I'm about to give in when something shifts against my neck, acting as another anchor that brings me back to reality.

When I awoke in the stylist's room minutes before coming to our chariot, I went into another panicked frenzy as I couldn't find my moth. The broken remains of the once beautiful creature were the only things I had left of my old life and I hadn't let it go since I'd scraped it up yesterday. Was it really only yesterday? It feels like it's been ages, years of torment and terror. But the moth has helped me keep going. And then I'd thought it had gone missing.

But my stylist had shown me where it was. At first I was horrified by what she had done with it, wrapping it all up in some material and stringing a thread through it. But then I realised that with this necklace version, I could always carry the moth with me, close to my heart, leaving my hands free in case I need to try and fend off any of these maniacs. The thought sends shivers through my spine. As if I'd be able to last in a fight against one of these crazy people, let alone more than a million.

_Just focus on the moth, _I think, trying desperately to blot out the noises of the crowd. _Don't think about anything else. Moth. Home. Mom and Dad. Zephyr. Safety._ My train of thought follows along these lines and slowly I can begin to feel myself relaxing, if only slightly. I jolt backwards as the chariot comes to an abrupt stop and almost open my eyes to check what's going on, but I stop myself. _Odds are it'll be something not very pleasant. So just breathe. Relax._

_Breathe. _

* * *

><p><strong>Malia Endal, District 12 Female<strong>

I couldn't believe it when I got here. I mean, yes I've heard all about the Capitol and how magnificent it supposedly is, but none of that at all prepared me for when I got here. And I know I'm supposed to be hating them for putting us through the Games every year, but there's a small part of me that can't help but admire this place.

Now here I am, in a wooden chariot pulled by two majestic, coal-black horses, riding around the City Circle in front of what has to be the biggest crowd I've ever seen in my entire life. It's a tiny bit nerve-wracking, I can tell you that. But at the same time it's . . . exhilarating.

I manage a small wave towards the Capitolites and glance at Noah, whose face is set in a stony glare. "Cheer up," I say, nearly shouting to be heard over the crowd. "One of them might sponsor us!"

He looks the teensiest bit surprised as I say the last word, and I have to remember that we're in the Hunger Games. There is no "us"; only one person can win the Games. But still, I don't want that to mean that I have to immediately start hating Noah just yet. Hopefully we'll never meet in the arena. "No they won't," he answers. "They're all looking at the Careers."

Unfortunately, this seems to be true. I can hear the crowd chanting names, ones I barely recognise from watching the reapings recap. So they aren't paying any attention to us. But then again, I guess I should have seen this coming. We're freaking _miners _after all. Seriously, I think this is the seventh time in a row our stylists have used these outfits. But I guess that's what you get when you've got an out-dated, unimaginative stylist.

"Well, if you look on the bright side-" But I guess Noah will never know what the bright side is because at that point I make a wide, sweeping gesture with my left hand, which just happens to be the one holding my plastic mining pick. It slips through my fingers and falls to the ground, being left in the dust as our chariot continues forwards. Noah and I stare at each other for a few seconds in shock, contemplating how much we could get in trouble for dropping a piece of our "one-of-a-kind" costumes out in the City Circle. Then we both burst out laughing.

"I guess they'll be noticing us now," Noah chuckles.

"Definitely," I manage to choke out through my giggles. "Oh jeez, I don't even want to know what my friends are thinking about me back home right now." The thought of Shayne, Heather and Blue watching me on TV saddens me slightly and catching a glimpse of Noah's once more stony expression, I can see that thinking about home and his friends depresses him slightly too. But there's something more than sadness in his eyes; something almost like . . . longing. Suddenly I remember seeing him in school at lunch, around the district, at previous reapings. Always the solitary one, standing in a corner while all around him people talked and laughed. I used to think that was the way he liked it. But maybe he didn't always want to be alone. After all, who does?

_You'll want to be in the arena_, I think to myself. _Only one can win then and if you're not alone it means there's someone hiding and just waiting to kill you. _But not always. There's such things as alliances. The Careers always have one. So maybe I don't have to be alone. And Noah doesn't either.

* * *

><p><em>Later that evening…<em>

Quentia Turnabubble was sitting in traffic, as was pretty much every other Capitol citizen who had attended the chariot rides live. The sounds of many a car horn could be heard throughout the street, her husband contributing to the noise, but Quentia didn't mind the wait. It gave her more time to impress people with the fact that she and her husband had gotten _prime_ seats in the City Circle.

She whipped out her phone and hesitated for a second. Who should she call? She'd already told the story to the neighbours, all the ladies who she met with each Friday, and her entire cleaning staff. Wait a minute, what about her sister? She hadn't heard from her in ages, which probably meant that she was embarrassed about something, probably the lack of money her twit of a husband made. All the better, she'd be far more impressed when Quentia told her about the rides.

Her fingers flew over the keypad and soon the phone was held to her ear as a familiar, "Hello?" was heard.

"Janey, darling! It's been so long!"

"Oh, Quentia." She thought she heard the smallest of sighs emanate from her sister. Probably just tired, the poor dear. "How've you been?"

"Wonderful, just absolutely wonderful. Did you see the chariot rides this evening?"

"Yes, actually I did."

"Oh that's excellent! I wonder if we could have seen you from where we sat! Where were you?"

"Well, we were . . . higher up."

"We wouldn't have seen you then, you know we had the prime seats? Right by the president they were!"

"That's great."

"It most certainly was," Quentia continued, missing the sarcasm in her sister's voice. "And what an event it was! As always, I believe District 1 had by _far _the best tributes of the year."

"Only in looks Quentia. I thought there were a few more impressive children."

"_Really?" _Quentia gasped as though it had never occurred to her that someone's opinion might differ from her own. "Like who?"

"Well, the twelve year-old from Six seemed nice."

"Yes, but the nurse's costume is _so _last year's Games. And where was her partner? I didn't even see him in the chariot."

"I caught a glimpse of him towards the end. He was sitting down in it."

"Stupid boy. Doesn't he know what a chariot is for? All I can say is, he'd better not stick to sitting down when the Games begin!"

"Quite."

Quentia paused as her sister seemed to lapse into a tense silence. She didn't know what had come over Janey, but whatever it was it could wait; she still had more to talk about. "Really though Janey, just because the tribute is young doesn't me they're cute. Look at the thirteen year-old from 11! Abhorrent costumes, all woven out of plant stock. She may have been able to pull it off, but on her district partner it just looked ridiculous!"

"They did have lovely green eyes though, I remembered seeing them in the reapings."

"Yes but the boy from twelve also had green eyes and he was probably one of the worst tributes yet! He looked so serious, I mean he's going into the Hunger Games, he should be having fun! And his partner seemed like an absolute klutz."

"I'd rather serious than menacing. That District 7 boy looked ready to kill."

"Oh yes, he was dreadful, and his partner wasn't smiling either."

"Seemed to me like there might be some tension between the two. I got the same feeling from the pair in District 2."

"Maybe. But of course, what can you do when you're second best?" Quentia said, remembering the District 1 tributes fondly. She would of course be sending all her husband's sponsor money their way.

"What about District 4? They're Careers too, are they not?"

"Well, yes, but the girl seemed so military-like and utterly un-fun. The boy was alright though, probably my next favourite. Shame he had to get paired with such an odd partner."

"He was eighteen, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I believe so. There's actually quite a few of the older ones this round. That girl from 9; ugh, those costumes were dreadful."

"The war getup?" For once, Janey actually agreed with her sister. "I know, what are they trying to do, start another rebellion?"

"Positively horrid. Though the District 5 costumes weren't much better."

"Yes, but I guess they didn't have much to work with when the district makes muttations. Thought District 10 fared alright. The swan costume on the girl was beautiful."

"But the boy's animal skin outfit was utterly distasteful. This is the Capitol; we're not savages here. It was almost as bad as those District 8 costumes. I mean when you make your tributes clothes out of curtains you know you have to get a new job."

"And that leaves the District 3 tributes."

"Completely forgettable. Honestly, robots?"

Janey sighed. She knew better than to argue with her sister, though she herself would withhold judgement on the tributes until the interviews came around. "Well, I have to go now Quentia, it was nice talking to you."

"Bye dear." Quentia clicked her phone shut with a snap just as the car finally began to move again. Yes, the chariot ride costumes were alright, but she'd heard that the interview costumes were going to be absolutely outstanding. She wondered just how much convincing it would take her husband to reserve them prime seating at that event…


	17. Impressions

**_Alright! I have here for you a very long first training day! These next few chapters will be all about discovering tributes' skills as well as forming the alliances! So get ready and watch the action unfold, because this is as much as you'll be getting before the Games begin! :)_**

**_So, don't forget to vote on the bloodbath poll and yeah, that's about all I have to say! Now enjoy your incredibly long chapter!_**

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><p><strong>Achilles Atromitos, District 1 Male<strong>

"Rise and shine! Today is going to be a super fun day!"

I groan softly as my escort's voice fills the room, excited as ever. Definitely _not _something I'm in the mood for this morning.

I never slept a wink last night; odd, since I was extremely well-rested on the train. But I think that being here in the Capitol has made me fully realise that my fate is set in stone. I _am _going into the Hunger Games and there's no backing out now. What's worse, I chose this fate. I didn't allow anyone to volunteer for me. At the time it seemed like the right thing to do, but now? I don't know anymore.

I stare down at my wrist, where a locket-like bracelet is kept. Inside the clasp are two pictures; Quinne's smiling face beams up at me on one side while Deimos grins up at me from the other. All night, I just stared at the images, trying to burn them into my mind so that I'd never forget them. I remember the goodbyes at the Justice Building, so heart-breaking and emotional that I almost broke down. Abalone had brought the twins in, who were both wondering "where Daddy was going on vacation." Seeing them there, promising them I'd be back soon, lying to them that I'd be absolutely fine while Abalone swore she would take care of them for "just a little while." But for 23 of us who enter the Games, "just a little while" will be an eternity away from our families. I just have to make sure I'm the one who survives.

"Achilles," a softer, more firm voice than that of our escort says. "Everyone's waiting for you."

I debate my chances of just staying in this room all day, but from the sounds of my godfather's tone I'm pushing it as it is. Might as well get some training in before the Games, even if that's one of the only things I've done all my life. Parenting and learning how to kill; not exactly two things that should go hand in hand.

It seems Zeus was right; as I reach the dining part of our floor in the tower where we're staying, I can see that all six victors, Lylie and Cordelia are already seated at the table. I take my spot in the only available seat and begin to eat, more to distract myself from the curious gazes of everyone then because I'm actually hungry.

"So the first training day," Cordelia's father says. "And the most important. Today's the day you make an impression and don't want you two to hold anything back." Judging by the nod of agreement my god-father makes, he and the other mentor have gotten over the tense moment that occurred two nights ago. I'm glad; there'll be enough fighting in the Games, I don't need our mentors to do it too.

"Who's leading the Career Pack this year?" Cordelia asks as she tried to skewer scrambled eggs onto the end of her fork. I stiffen visibly at her words and Zeus notices. I'd hoped that we could go without mention of the Pack for at least a little while longer.

"Well, it does change from year to year," her father begins.

"But if the District 1 male is capable and a great fighter, it's always him," my godfather finishes, still eyeing me. I know what he wants me to do but I can't. Isn't going into the Games enough for him? But no, of course not, he wants me in charge of the alliance he led back in his days in the arena. He smiles. "Like father like son."

"We discussed it with the mentors of Two and Four and they all seem to agree that Achilles would be more than capable." Argent, a victor in her early thirties, says. They all turn to me, waiting for the confirmation that I will lead the pack.

_Like father like son._

But I will never be the child of Zeus Dynamos.

"No," I say resolutely. "I'm not leading the Careers."

Every takes a moment for that to sink in. I can feel the incredulous stare from Cordelia but I'm entirely focused on my godfather, whose gaze never drops from mine, his eyes hardening at my words.

"Sounds like someone's a little scared," Splendor snorts, but her words have no effect on either of us.

"And why wouldn't you want to lead them?" Zeus asks slowly, waiting for the answer he knows is coming.

"I'm not joining the Careers," I say, without a moment's hesitation.

There are a few gasps around the table. Usually if anyone refuses to join its District 4; their tributes sort of fluctuate between being volunteered Careers and reaped, average tributes. But District 1 is _always _in the pack. Never once, in 36 years, has that rule been broken. Until now.

My godfather smiles suddenly, a cold, fake smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "He's playing with us, obviously." He looks around at the other mentors, who give him uneasy smiles. "A tribute from District 1 never goes into the Games alone."

"I'm not joining with them."

"I don't think you really have a choice." Zeus's tone turns deadly a he locks gazes with me again. "You're going to be in the Pack and you're going to lead them."

"No."

"I trained you, I prepared you for this moment in your life, and you're not going to disobey me on such an important matter!" He slams his fist onto the table, making the silverware tremble. "Give me one good reason why you shouldn't join them!"

"Because I'm not the one that's going to kill off these innocent kids!" I shout, and the room goes deathly quiet at my words. I'm out of line, I know it, and this is going to have some serious repercussions later on. But for now, I don't care. "And neither you nor anyone else can make me." With that, I stand up abruptly from the table and storm off into the hall, leaving them all sitting there in stunned silence. I could go to my room, but that's not enough, I know that my godfather will follow me in there. I've never, ever shouted at him like that before and there will definitely be consequences. So instead I head for the elevator, striding inside it and hitting the ground floor button with enough force to break a window. But it seems that the thing is built to withstand a lot of impact; after all, they probably get a lot of angry tributes using this thing. The elevator quickly descends down to the main floor and the doors have barely opened when I stalk out of it. I need somewhere to wear down my rage, somewhere where I can pace and be alone with my thoughts. It would have been nice to take out my fury on a few practice dummies in the training room but it's already occupied by someone. Tall and slender, blonde hair streaked with different colours, I recognise her as the District 4 girl. _A perfect Career_, I think bitterly, watching her tear a mannequin to shreds with a dagger. It makes me sick to think that in a few days, that could very well be a real child standing in front of her.

I veer away from the facility before she can catch a glimpse of me and head instead for a small, unassuming door nearby. It says no admittance but for all their preparation the Capitol didn't seem to count on the power of an enraged tribute with Career training. One sharp kick to the door and it crashes open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. I can hear the Career girl pause in her attack on the training equipment as she looks around for the source of the noise, but I head through before she can see me.

The place I've entered seems to be the maintenance area of the building, where all the cleaning supplies and garbage is kept. Luckily it's early and there's no one around, giving me plenty of time to vent my anger.

_How can even think I would join the Careers? To kill kids, to take them away from their friends, their family, their loved ones? No one can ask you to do that._

_But these are the Hunger Games, _a small voice whispers in the back of my head. _23 kids must die so you can get back to Quinne and Deimos._

I shake my head, trying to clear my mind of those thoughts, but it's true, isn't it? 23 have to die and I can't leave Quinne and Deimos alone without a father. They've already lost their mother . . .

I lean against the wall and slowly sink to the floor. Marie . . . I just wish she was with me now! But no, that wouldn't be good, would it? Then she'd be going into the Hunger Games with me. What I really wish is that she was back home, watching and praying every day that I would make it home. Marie, I can't do this without you.

The words resonate in my brain, memories of the last time they were spoken rising to the surface, threatening to overflow. In the hospital, right after the birth, her dark skin so pale and her breathing ragged.

"_Are they alright?" she asks softly, her first words since the birth. I look up from the chair where I was sitting, both my hands tightly clenched around one of hers._

"_Y-yes, they are. And you will be too, you'll be fine."_

"_What are they like?"_

"_They're beautiful Marie. The girl is so sweet and the boy . . . his eyes are just like yours."_

_She smiles, a frail, delicate smile but nonetheless one that shows as much joy as a person can have. "They sound wonderful."_

"_They are. You'll see, when they let you come back home you'll see them."_

"_Achilles-"_

"_Don't," I say, harsher than I meant to. But I can't bear to hear the words that I know would have come out of her mouth. Especially knowing that it's all my fault she's in such a condition. If I had waited like she'd first wanted to, it would have been fine. Sixteen is too young to have children. "You'll be fine. I can't do this without you Marie. I-I can't."_

_She just smiles, a small yet genuine one. "You'll be a great parent Achilles," she says, squeezing my hands lightly. "I know you will be."_

Shortly after I was ushered out by the doctors and I wasn't allowed back in her room until it was too late. The birth had been too much and her heart had given out. All of it my fault.

But I'm not going to make the same mistake again. As much as I wish it was her and not me, as much as I wish she was still alive, it won't change what happened. The only thing I can do now is make sure that I never take another innocent life again. I won't kill these kids in the Hunger Games; if anything, I'll protect them. And nothing my godfather says will change that.

Standing up with renewed strength, I head over to the exit, ready to rejoin the other tributes. But something catches my eye first. Something large and white sticks out from a large garbage bin and I recognise it immediately as our escort's original dress, now soiled with a rather large, orange stain. I run my fingers over it and shake my head; these Capitol people sure know how to waste things. There probably wasn't enough room in the garbage on the train for her to throw it out there.

My hand slips over the dress and into a previously undiscovered, hidden pocket. I frown and pull out its contents; two crisp slips of paper, the first which reads "Caitlin Hathwell." A small memory stirs inside my mind as I remember the reapings and the girl whose name was called before Cordelia rushed to volunteer. These must be the names our escort drew during the ceremony. I glare at the other one, the slip of paper that condemned me to this fate, but something seems off. Unlike the other, it seems to have gotten more of the orange juice on it and it's stained quite a bit, but even still it doesn't look like my name is written on it. It looks like it says "Gregory" at the beginning. But that can't be right, can it? The juice just must have made the ink run or something. Because the escort called my name and that's why I'm here.

So why do I get the feeling that something odd is going on here?

* * *

><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

"Careful. You're jaw's hanging so far down you're likely to trip over it."

Code glares at me, closing his mouth with a snap. I mean honestly, it's as though he's never seen a training room before. Sure the one in District 2 is incomparable to that of the Capitol, with its state of the art equipment, shiny new weapons and impeccable fighting rings but other than that it's not so impressive. _Really._

He turns away from me and I roll my eyes. I swear, I've gotten the most incompetent idiot for a district partner in the history of Panem. I thought his grandmother was crazy but compared to her grandson she's just slightly eccentric.

I realise suddenly that we're getting a lot of glances from the other tributes, owing to the fact that we came in late and interrupted the instructor in the middle of her speech. But I refused to come down any earlier than this; we've got to make an impression, and since our stylists failed miserably with the chariot rides it's up to me to pick up their slack. Honestly, I have to do everything around here.

After our little disturbance the instructor seems a bit thrown off, so she hurriedly finishes her lecture and then dismisses the tributes for their training. Code heads off immediately, eager to put as much distance between myself and him. I'm glad to be rid of him but my happiness is short lived as I realise where he's heading. The two eighteen year-olds from District 4 are talking together near the knife station and that seems to be my district partner's destination. Of course it is; we were instructed by our mentors to get in with the Career Pack. No _duh_. I mean, we're from Two, I think we could have figured that out on our own.

I sigh heavily, attracting the attention of the two pathetic tributes from Twelve, before slowly making my way over to the rest of the Careers. I really should know their names, but I was much too uninterested while watching the recaps to care. It doesn't really matter anyways; they're all just my opponents.

I reach the station, joining Code, both from Four, and the girl from One. They're all just standing around, waiting, and I can't help but sigh at the utter lack of panache these people seem to have. Honestly, I thought the Careers might at least have a bit more personality then the rest but as always I'm disappointed. Time to stir things up a bit.

"Excuse me," I say, tapping the girl from One on the shoulder. "I was wondering if you could help. I'm looking for the Careers. You know, good fighters, skilled with weapons, intimidating?" That gets a reaction out of them. Code shoots me a familiar glare while the boy from Four frowns. His district partner however just looks me up and down, a small smirk beginning to form on her face.

"Oh, we are the Careers," the girl from One says cheerily, obviously missing the insult. I look at her distastefully. She's definitely the youngest out of us all and makes me question why the Capitol always places our district second to those in One. I mean really, if you were a sponsor would you place your money on me or Miss Rainbows and Sunshine Perky Pants over there?

"And if you didn't notice," Code says curtly, "We're one ally short."

"About that," Miss Perky says. "My district partner, Achilles, he, um, doesn't want to be a part of the pack."

That silences us all for a bit. Lura said that the District 1 male is usually always the one to lead the pack. And now this one doesn't even want to be a part of it. My shock fades quickly as my signature smirk reappears on my face. We'll see what the Capitol thinks of the oh-so-amazing District 1 when the male tribute is too cowardly to join the Careers.

Everyone's still has yet to recover from their surprise at Perky's words, except for the other female tribute, who's staring off with the same calculating look she wore earlier. I follow her gaze to see someone just entering the training area now. I don't quite remember him but from his height and muscular build, as well as the way he glances at us before heading off to the edible plants station leads me to believe that this is our missing Career. I don't know what he's trying to gain by coming in this late. _I _made an impression; _he _just lost valuable training time.

"Well, I guess the position for leader is open then," the District 4 girl says, snapping everyone out of their thoughts. "A spot I will gladly fill."

"Who died and made you king?" I ask contemptuously.

She smiles at me, but not a real smile, more one like a shark might give to a small fish before it clamps down its jaws on its prey. "No one yet, but I can guarantee you that plenty of kids will die soon, and you may want to rethink your attitude unless you want to be one of them."

I glare at her but even I have to admit that it takes all my resolve not to look away. She may be only one year older than me but, and I hate to admit it, she's pretty darn intimidating.

"Why don't we have a vote?" Perky asks.

Shark Girl snorts. "What do you think this is, a democracy? _Please_. I'm the oldest here, which automatically-"

"One of the oldest," her district partner interrupts, speaking for the first time. They lock eyes as he repeats it. "One of the oldest."

She holds his gaze for a second and then shrugs. "Alright. So we co-lead?"

He shrugs. "Seems fair."

"Don't we get a say in this?" I ask huffily, expecting Perky or Code to say something similar, but they both just seem relieved the Shark Girl isn't the sole leader of the group.

She laughs. "I don't think so Short-Stuff."

This girl is really beginning to get on my nerves. Yes, the people in my district were enough to try me patience, but she's pushing me to the limit. _Just wait 'til the arena, _I think. _Then anything goes._

She looks around at us all, as though waiting for something. "Well, come on now! Get out there and show us what you've got! You're not in the Career Pack until you can prove that you have what it takes!"

This I wasn't expecting. A test? I thought being in District 2 would be enough. But who am I kidding? I could pass any pathetic test that Shark Girl throws at me.

As if on cue, the three of us split up. I watch Perky head to the bow and arrow station. She grabs the weapon but turns away from the circular targets, instead facing back towards the District 4 leaders at the knives station and shoots, her arrow piercing the heart of the dummy even from her distance. She continues shooting from where she is, hitting the mark every time. And though her personality annoys me to death, I have to admit she's a good shot.

Then it's Code's turn. He doesn't go far, merely picking up a bunch of knives from the racks nearby and throwing them, each one slicing cleanly through Perky's arrows and hitting the dummies in the heart as well.

All that's well and good for them, but when it comes to the Careers we don't exactly stand back and try and pick people off with daggers or knives now do we? No, we get right up close with our opponents, something I'm going to show these people.

I slide a sword off the nearby rack and take off, charging at the first dummy. A quick swing takes off its head, a back kick to another to get it down on the ground before I stab its chest. Wrenching my sword out and spilling stuffing everywhere, I make short work of the next three dummies and finally plunge my weapon into the last one's stomach, pulling it upwards and carving a wide gash into it, its insides flowing onto the floor. Casually, I brush a strand of hair out of my face and turn to look at Shark Girl. She looks relatively unimpressed but I can tell that she's beginning to realise that she's underestimated the three of us. It seems like the other tributes are having similar thoughts; most of them have stopped working at their station to watch Perky, Code and I perform, and their faces show emotions ranging from shocked to terrified. Good. They know they're in trouble now, they've seen what the Careers can do, and that should dissuade them from any pathetic notion they had of ever going back to their district alive again.

I notice the District 6 girl, the only twelve year-old fumbling around at the spear station, trying to wrench her weapon out of the target. It's pretty obvious she's not practiced at that sort of thing. I smirk again and throw my arm back before hurling the sword through the air and the feeling of satisfaction bubbles inside me as it lands with a _thunk_ right beside her tiny head. She jumps and I start to snort but am cut off suddenly as the cold, sharp edge of a knife is pressed right against my throat.

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

I can't help but laugh as I watch the three youngest Careers attempt to show off for their allies. Sure they have training, but I have a feeling that when it comes time to kill in the arena, they'll wimp out. Still, they don't all seem utterly useless; I have a feeling the girl from Four will do very well in the Games. It might be good to have her on my side. And ultimately, it'll help me achieve my primary goal in the arena.

My thoughts turn to plans for her demise and I glance over at my unfortunate, soon-to-be victim. Gwen's watching the display from the station devoted to snares. Her eyes are narrowed but I can tell she's nervous at seeing the competition. Well, she hasn't seen anything yet.

As if she can sense my gaze she turns and gives me her best condescending glare before returning to her work. I smirk; she won't be so high and mighty when we're in the arena, that's for sure. Especially if she's on her lonesome and I'm with the most notorious alliance in the Games. Of course, they won't be any use killing off tributes, but they might be useful for tracking down those who I can't bother to find myself.

However, first I have to get in with them. Not that that'll be hard. Judging by the teens they already have to put up with and the fact that the District 1 male seems to have decided not to join them, I'm sure they're begging for allies. I'll just have to make a good impression.

The focus seems to be on the girl from Two now as she methodically sets about destroying the remaining dummies. _Sounds like opportunity is knocking, _I think, smiling, as I head over to one of the largest mannequins, unnoticed by anyone. I pause to grab a special knife from one of the weapon racks, a blade that closely resembles the meat cleavers we use back home. Excellent. I position myself a few steps away from the dummy and wait.

Soon enough, the sound of tearing fabric rings out again and by the proximity of the noise I can tell that the girl has just stabbed the last mannequin, which I currently stand behind. I give her a moment to try and boast to the others about her achievement, something she does by flinging her sword at the nearest tribute. Wonderful, now she's unarmed. I take that as my cue to step out from behind the dummy and press the blade firmly against her throat.

She lets out a sharp gasp but has the sense not to move. I can see the other Careers staring from the corner of my eye but I pay no attention to them. This is when I have to make an impression, and I figure that intimidating what seems to be one of the most cocky members of the alliance is a good way to start. So I just slowly walk around, all the time keeping the knife at her throat, until I'm face to face with her.

"Stupid move at the end there, really," I say quietly, but dangerously. "Leaves you without a weapon."

She juts her chin out stubbornly, though is careful not to move her head too much due to the sharp weapon pressing against her windpipe. "'Least I'm not the one hiding behind dummies. I guess you figured you'd fit right in with them."

I smile at that point. She's alright with the insults, probably thinks she could intimidate any tribute she chose. Well, I'm not just any tribute and after spending years with Ember it would be extremely hard for anyone to get to me. "Not a great idea to insult the guy who's got a knife at your throat."

She smirks, but I can see that it's a somewhat empty bluff. I wouldn't say she's scared exactly, not yet, but definitely uneasy. "Like you could do anything with it. The officials would be on you before you could move a muscle." She stares off at something behind my shoulder but I don't need to look. There's a Peacekeeper in front of me too, and I can see him stretching out of hi casual position near the door to come towards us. Better make this quick then. I press the knife a little closer, not enough to draw blood and get me in serious trouble, but enough to make her tense up.

"I don't know," I say, my tone deadly. "I think my chances are pretty good, don't you?"

Her expression wavers and finally I can see the fear in her eyes I've been waiting for. Good, that's all I need. Stepping away from her, I slowly pull the knife away holding her gaze all the while. She meets it, barely, and as soon as I've let her go she stalks off, trying to hold on to some aspect of her dignity. I smile and turn to the dummy which I methodically begin to skin alive, cutting into the fabric and ripping each strip off with almost loving care. There's nothing more I need to do; I know that they'll come to me.

And sure enough, "You certainly put her in her place." I casually glance over to see the girl from District 4 watching at me, leaning on an opposing dummy.

I shrug and return to my task. "Figured someone had to do it."

She looks me up and down, analysing me. "So I guess you think you can fit in with the Careers."

"Depends. You people think you can keep up with me?"

She laughs. "For District 7 you sure are pretentious." There's a slight pause as she thinks it over. "But I guess we could always use a lumberjack in the arena."

I consider coming back with a biting insult, but I figure that I've pushed it enough for one day. "Fair enough." I extend my right hand to shake but can't resist adding, "I guess allying with a fish might come in handy."

She looks at me for a second, but takes my hand anyways. "Well alrighty then. Welcome to the Careers District 7."

I nod and she walks off towards her district partner, who was watching the exchange nervously. Reminding me of Gwen, I turn to see her staring back at me. She watched the whole thing and I can see that she's a slight bit anxious. I give her a huge smile back. She should be. Because once we're in the arena, I'm coming for her.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

"I thought we were co-leading."

I roll my eyes at Perrin. "We are."

"But you have the say of who gets in and who doesn't?"

"You're scared of him."

"What?" He's caught off guard by that. "No, of course not. But you'd be an idiot to think that there won't be a second in the arena where he could be stabbing us in the back."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really, all that Career training and you're worried about one woodsman from District 7? Maybe you shouldn't be leading the Pack."

He stares icily at me, trying to figure out if I'm serious. "I'm not afraid."

"Good," I say. "Because I've warned you before, there's no room for weak links in the Career Pack." I hold his gaze for a moment longer to let my words sink in, allowing him to realise that I am _deadly _serious. Then I clap my hands and put on a smile. "Well, good talk, but I've got some training to do." I start to leave but feel the need to say something more. "Oh, and Perrin." He turns to me. "If you really want to add allies to the Pack yourself then just say so."

I don't miss the furtive glance he shoots at the District 9 girl, who's currently studying techniques for fire starting, and I let out a snort. "I meant allies worthy of being with us, Perrin. You can't just take in the riff raff."

This earns me another hostile gaze from him but I don't really care at this point. As fun as it is arguing with Perrin, this conversation is both pointless and tedious, as well as cutting into my valuable training time. I turn on my heel and head off for a weapons station, wondering why most people have to have so many emotions bubbling around inside them. Really, it's easier if you don't feel anything at all. It gets the job done _much _faster.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

I wait until the District 4 girl has walked away before slowly approaching the boy. Obviously I'll have to face her eventually if I want to get in with the Careers, but for now I'd rather stick to someone a bit less, well, Careerish. Because I've definitely decided that I need to become a member of the Pack if any of my ideas are going to work. I'll need the supplies they get and the time it'll take to set up, time they can give me if they're preventing anyone from killing me.

"Excuse me," I say and the boy turns to look at me. "You're the leader of the Careers, right?"

"Well, one of them," he answers, shooting another look at his partner's back, whose currently wielding two axes with extreme skill.

"I'd like to join."

"What?" He looks at me sharply, taking in my spiky brown hair, lanky frame and glasses.

"I know I don't look like the typical Career but I think you'll find I have other resources that'll be infinitely more valuable than having another muscled thug on your team."

He frowns, maybe wondering if my statement was directed at him. He certainly looks strong, probably from the years of Career training. "Really? And what might that be?"

Part of me wonders if I should be offended by his tone, but I'm not. Perhaps he noticed me during the training so far; since pretty much all I've done is stand and observe the others, I'm sure I haven't made the best impression on him. But now is the time to change that.

"I'm intelligent. You see that tribute over there?" I gesture to the fighting arena and he turns to watch the boy from District 5 spar against one of the instructors. "Favours his right leg, probably the result of some sort of past accident. He'll fake to the right then dodge to the left, throw a right hook which the instructor will stop and retaliate with a turning kick."

I almost feel as if I should cross my fingers, but I've got too much faith in my predictions to do so. And sure enough, the District 4 boy and I watch as what I just stated unfolds before our eyes. He blinks, surprised, and I smile slightly. Maybe getting in with the Careers won't be as hard as I thought.

"And that girl over there," I start to continue, but stop when I see Precious staring at me. I didn't tell her or anyone else of my plans to join the Careers and the way she's staring at me now is hurt? Betrayed? I'm not sure, but I can feel the cold tendrils of doubt slipping through my body. Maybe I shouldn't be joining these people. They kill innocent kids. But I have to, to win this. "That girl over there," I continue, ignoring Precious and continuing with my diagnosis of the District 11 girl, whose practicing at the axe station right next to the other tribute from Four. "Her throws are always slightly to the right of where she wants it thrown. Contrarily, your district partner hits the bull's-eye every time. Her throws are carefully, yet swiftly executed and she doesn't seem to have a visible weakness. Of course, this is only from a small amount of time observing. I'm sure I could find advantages over every tribute eventually," I say, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to communicate something else with him. I have the capability to find a flaw in his district partner, something he may very well need to use to get home. Obviously he won't be winning the Games, no that's for me to do, but if I can get him on my side it'll be a heck of a lot easier. So I wait as he thinks it over, contemplating what it might mean to have me in the alliance.

After a long moment, he begins to slowly nod. "Alright. You're on."

I blink. Was it really that easy? "Okay then. Thanks." He nods again and then heads off for the trident station, leaving me wondering exactly what I've just gotten myself into.


	18. A Woman's Touch

_**Second day of training! I only put three POVs in this one since the last was so darn long, so I'm giving you guys a bit of a break here :)**_

_**On a new note, I entered a contest to win an all expense paid trip to the Hunger Games premiere. You had to write the first 5 pages to your own dystopian story and the contest results will be posted on Friday. Wish me luck! And if you want to check out the story, here's the link: www. fictionpress .com/s/2960314/1/For_bReel_b (just remove the spaces) Any feedback is welcome! Thanks guys!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

_I'm alone on a mountain, gazing out at the view below. My district, I realise. Yes, there's the Justice Building, the town square, the lab where my parents work. I inhale sharply as I catch sight of a different building, so familiar and friendly and safe. Our house. I can people gathered out front, and though I'm high up, I somehow know that Dhara and parents and brothers are all there, waiting for me. My heart leaps and I smile; I'd never thought that I'd get to see them again. Now all I have to do is find a way down this mountain . . ._

"_You can't go to them."_

_I turn, and the soaring happiness I'd felt moments ago disappears as the girl from District 2 materialises in front of me, smirking and twirling a sword in her hands. "You've left them for good," she says._

"_No," I say, shaking my head. I refuse to believe that, I'm so close to them and despite the fear I'm feeling right now I'm not going to let this girl stand in my way._

_Her smirk grows. "Wrong answer."_

_Without warning she throws her sword into the air. I cry out as it comes hurtling towards me, trying to take a step back to avoid it, but I'm too close to the edge of the mountain and now I'm falling, falling fast through the air. . ._

I shoot upwards, gasping for breath. _A bad dream, _I reassure myself, trying to calm down. _That's all it was, just a dream._

But it wasn't, not really. Because as the sound of my escort rapping his knuckles on my bedroom door reaches my ears, I am reminded that for me, the nightmare doesn't end. The Games are looming over me; I have a mere five days before they begin. Although first I have to deal with another terrifying challenge: facing yet another training day.

I suppress a shiver as the memories from yesterday return to me. All these tributes were so . . . intimidating to say the least. At least during the chariot rides we all seemed a bit ridiculous, but with the silly Capitol costumes stripped away, many of these children have shown themselves for who they truly are; dangerous, deadly, and ready to kill.

How am I, the sole twelve year-old in these Games, supposed to survive against all these other tributes? Really, the answer is, I'm not. Hopefully I'll manage to get past the bloodbath at least, but the thought of me getting into the final eight, let alone emerging the victor, is laughable.

I turn on the bedside lamp and it reflects off of something, throwing the light into my eyes. I wince and look away, reaching out for whatever it is and clasping my hand around it. It's the star pin, my token that Dhara had given me during the goodbyes. _It's a bit silly, _she had said to me, _but I think when people die they-they become stars. In the sky. And my mother, well, I think she's up there, looking down on us. The pin, it's like her symbol. She knows to protect whoever wears it. She'll watch over you in the arena Cathy, I know she will. You'll come home to me._

I just sit there for a while, looking at the pin and remembering all the good times I've had with Dhara, until my escort is back at the door calling me to breakfast again. Carefully, I reach up and pin the star onto my training uniform and even just by doing that I feel. . . lighter, somehow. Maybe Dhara's mother really will watch over me.

Weidel, our escort, mutters darkly about punctuality as I finally exit my room, but when I get to the dining area I find that I'm not really all that late. The only other people sitting at the table are Falcon, one of District 6's two victors, and both our stylists. I feel obliged to take a seat next to Dialdi, who designed my chariot outfit, but in reality I wish I could sit as far from him as possible. His blood-red eyes and devious smile always give off the illusion that he's plotting someone's murder, and if that face was approaching you with a sewing needle and some scissors I'm sure you'd want to stay away too.

I pick up a piece of toast and nibble on it, not really hungry after the nerve-wracking dream I'd just had, while Dialdi and Summer, Taralo's stylist, make small talk about what sort of materials they'll be using for the interview outfits. Weidel sits for two seconds but gets up again when he realises that it's pretty obvious that neither Taralo nor Genine, our other mentor, will be showing up of their own free will. I'm not a fan of our Capitolite escort, but I have to admit that he does go through quite an ordeal getting us all up in the morning. Though when I think about what I'll be going through in a few days, I admit that I can't really feel any sympathy for him.

I can, however, feel sympathy for my district partner. However bad this whole experience is for me, I'm sure it must be a hundred times worse for him. Taralo's never spoken a word to me, but from what I can gather overhearing our escort talking in disgust about him, I'm pretty sure I know what his story is. And going from spending a life never setting foot outside to having to be in front of thousands of Capitol people, well, I can't even imagine it. Maybe it'll get better over time.

_Then again, _I think as I watch our escort drag him into the room, _maybe not_. His face is paler then the crisp white cloth draped over the table, and he's still shaking from head to toe, one hand clutching desperately at the small bundle around his neck. He didn't manage to get any training done yesterday; I think just being in the same room with kids practicing to kill others was too much. I can relate to him now though; I dread having to go back to the training room with those evil Careers and scary, massive tributes who look like they could snap my neck easily.

"Alright, if you two are just going to waste your time up here, then we might as well go down to training," Weidel snaps after nearly an hour of sitting watching me eat the toast with aching slowness while Taralo makes no move to touch the food at all. "Come on, get up."

I stand quickly, my fear of our escort overriding my fear of the other tributes. I thought that escorts were supposed to be all happy and excited and annoyingly cheerful. Why did we have to get the harshest and meanest one?

To my surprise, Taralo stands too, looking at the escort with wide, terrified eyes. Yesterday it was almost as though he was completely tuned out to the world, not registering anything that happened. At least until our escort gave him a huge, shouted lecture. So I guess like me, one of his fears overrode the other.

Before I know it, I'm back on track thinking about training again today and all my worries flood back to me. Maybe getting yelled at by the escort would be preferable to going down there again. After all, I've only spent one day in training with the other tributes and I almost had my head sliced off. At this rate, I won't even make it into the arena alive.

Summer seems to notice the terrified expressions on both our faces because she pats Weidel's arm softly and says, "Why don't I take them down? You've got all that work to do signing up sponsors."

He nods, snorting as he looks at the two of us. "I sure do. Can you imagine how hard it is trying to get people to put money on a skinny twelve year-old and a deranged teenager?" He lets out a dry laugh before heading off to his room, leaving Summer to gently escort us to the elevator.

"Thanks," I manage to say as we wait in the lift, slowly descending to the ground floor.

"No problem dear," she says, giving me a warm, comforting smile. Like our escort, she's not at all what I expected. When the word "stylist" pops into my mind, I think of some sort of bubble-headed dimwit who has nothing better to do then design clothes all day. But Summer is . . . nice. She's almost reminds me of my mother.

The elevator dings and the doors open to reveal the training area. I take a deep breath and step out onto the floor, turning and waiting for Taralo to follow me. After much help from his stylist, he finally gets off the lift, but at this point he's shaking so badly that he can barely stand. Summer looks at him, concerned; I think she's gotten pretty attached to the frail, delicate child that is her designated tribute. Then, with a furtive look around, she hands him a small, leather-bound book. "This might help," she whispers to him. To me she continues, "Just make sure that the Gamemakers don't catch sight of it."

I nod, not fully understanding what she means. A glance at the cover reveals the book's title: "A Collection of Fairytales." What possible harm could a few stories do?

"Take care," she says, giving us both one last smile before the elevator doors close on her again, leaving us to face the terrors of the day alone.

I turn to see the majority of the tributes already at the different stations in training. There's the District 4 girl, beating up one of the instructors in the fighting circle, the District 12 boy pounding a dummy with a hammer; everywhere there are tributes showing off their skills with weapons. It makes me a bit sick to watch.

But as much as I'd like to break down right now, as much as I should be able to considering by young age, I can't. Because out of the two tributes representing District 6, I'm the only one who can be the adult. So gently I take Taralo's hand and lead him into the training room. He doesn't object, but refuses to go any father once we've entered the facility, because he won't or he can't, I'm not sure which. At any rate, his shudders grow and he just sinks down to the floor, back against the wall, looking as though he's trying to hide from the world. I turn to leave and head for the edible plants station, but something stops me. The District 2 girl is staring at the two of us, wearing her ever-present smirk with a nasty look in her eye. She goes after the weaker tributes, I know that from experience. And I can tell Taralo is her next target. But really, what can I do about that? I'm not going to be in the arena to hold his hand. He'll have to learn to survive on his own sooner or later.

Almost immediately after the thoughts enter my head, they're shooed away by the behaviour and manners my parents have raised me on. A patient relies on you, they need your help and it's your duty to provide it. Always they would repeat those words to me, make me recite them every day when they came home from work. And they stayed true to their saying; they've never turned away someone in need of help. What about me? Taralo, sitting there shaking, eyes wide, face pale, he looks just like the patients my parents have had to treat. So will I follow their lead?

I turn from my original path and head back towards my district partner. I know the girl from District 2 will come soon to heckle us, and the thought of her terrifies me, but my upbringing is enough to stifle it. Gently I slide the book Summer gave him out of his arms and flip open to a page before quietly beginning to read aloud.

"_There was a time when Robin Hood, the famous outlaw, was not an outlaw at all but a nobleman, Lord of Locksley. He lived near Sherwood Forest, and it was in that forest where, one day, Robin went out hunting and came up on a maiden wearing a dress as green as the springtime leaves."_

Slowly, the shaking stops and he looks up, uncurling slightly from the tight, defensive ball he had wound himself into. I smile and continue on, as he begins to relax with each new paragraph. _Just like the healing processes at the hospital, _I think to myself, grinning slightly at the thought. _Mom and Dad would be proud._

* * *

><p><strong>Precious Blu, District 8 Female<strong>

I'm not quite sure how I managed to drag myself to training today; I barely got a wink of sleep last night. There was too much to think about. Molly, Kev, the Games, the other tributes and Janaff. He was mostly the cause of last night's bout of insomnia.

Of course, I never considered us friends. We were barely acquaintances. But Molly knew him well, and I thought that maybe that could be a good basis to work together. Or, at the very least, we could keep on good terms during our stay in the Capitol and pray we never met up in the arena.

But to join with the Careers? That's just . . . wrong. They're a pack of blood-thirsty monsters who train purposely for the Games just so they can go and kill off innocent kids. Why in the world would he want to join with them? I mean, District 8 has _never _been known for allying with that pack. And while I continuously glance at him in the elevator on the ride down, I can't help but think how out of place he'll be among them. Glasses, wiry body, I can't picture him anywhere except hidden amongst the piles of books in his grandfather's library. He's not the type of person you'd expect in the arena and _certainly _not the type seen with the Careers. I don't even know how he managed to convince them to let him in; he must have shown them something pretty impressive. Which bothers me even more.

I stride out of the elevator and head right to the knives station. I caught on pretty quickly to the techniques for the blades yesterday, but right now I don't want to learn, I want to blow off some steam and get rid of this anger inside of me. I do have a right to be angry, don't I? I mean, you don't have to be friends to feel betrayed. Joining the Career Pack, that's low and I don't think anyone in our district could ever forgive him for it.

I hurl the daggers at the target, not exactly hitting the center but it's close enough. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement; the District 2 girl, Rhine, heading over towards the District 6 pair, who're sitting at the end of the room making no move to try and practice their skills. In fact, I think the girl is reading. With the book in her hands and the brownish-blonde hair just reaching past her shoulders, I visibly flinch at how much she reminds me of Molly. Seeing her here sparks a new wave of emotions, washing over my anger and pulling it away as a tide of longing and sadness take its place. Molly. What I wouldn't give to be able to see her, just one more time.

Instinctively, I throw the knife forwards, aiming for the spot on the wall right by the Rhine's head. I remember seeing her pull the same move on the poor twelve year-old just yesterday, and by the looks of it she's going over there to harass the poor girl again. Well, I won't be letting that happen.

Unfortunately my aim isn't perfect, and instead of hitting the wall by her head my knife sticks into the ground by her feet. Still, I get the desired effect. She turns away from the two tributes, searching instead for the one who threw the dagger. I consider dropping the other blade I hold, making it less obvious that it was me, but why should I? I don't have to hide anything from this girl.

But as she nears me, my confidence wavers. The nervousness I so often feel when I'm around adults starts to envelop me. Sure, she's only a year older than I am, but at the same time I know what she's capable of. I've spent enough time around my father, making me more wary of older people. However, just recently, I've started to relax a tiny bit. Most adults aren't nearly as bad as my father. But this Career girl, I know what she's capable of, and she probably would not hesitate to hurt me.

"I believe you dropped something," she says derisively, handing me back the knife. "Although judging by your standards I'm sure you would have considered that a 'throw.'" She looks at the target I've been practising on, filled with daggers though none of them are near the bulls-eye.

Something bubbles up inside me; my anger is returning, but is it enough to take over years of nervousness and fear around others? This girl could hurt me even worse than my father ever has. But why do I want so badly to put her in her place?

"I guess you think you have perfect aim, given that you've been training your whole life for this," I say coldly.

"I don't think," she says, throwing the knife at the target and, sure enough, it lands dead center. "But yes, you're right."

"So how does it feel to know that your life's goal this entire time has been to kill as many kids as possible in the Games?" I ask, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I've never spoken to anyone like that in my entire life, certainly not to someone who has trained to kill people just like me.

Rhine, however, barely seems fazed. "I'm just in it to win it. So don't get in my way and you'll be fine. You'll still be dead, but at least you won't have to face me in the arena."

Blood rushes to my face at her words. If she thinks she's going to win, then she's got another thing coming. She doesn't have a sister who relies on her, and I highly doubt that she has any good friends back in her district. Yet she goes around acting all high and mighty, being so superior when really, she's just another Career. Before I can stop myself I blurt out, "Yeah, didn't seem like anyone was eager to get in your way and the reapings. What does it mean when all of District 2 decides not to volunteer just so that they can watch a certain tribute die?"

This time, I've crossed the line, I know it. Contrary to me, her face loses colour, and I can see her smirking façade waver. "Excuse me?" she says, dangerously quiet. "Would you kindly repeat that?"

But all the anger I had left me in those words and with it is gone my confidence to stand up to this girl, especially now that her true self stands before me; a formidable, vicious opponent who would not hesitate to kill me in the arena. If she even bothered to wait that long; from the look she's giving me now I'd say she could kill me, would kill me, right here.

I take a step backwards as she takes one forwards, still glaring at me. Just when I'm worried that she'll start something, right here (it may be illegal to fight but the Peacekeepers wouldn't be able to make it over here in time to stop her from throwing a punch) a hand lands on her shoulder. "Shouldn't we be training?"

The two of us turn to look at each other and a usual pool of emotions bubble up inside of me as I see the familiar face; it's Janaff. Rhine looks at him for a moment like she'd dearly love to beat him up as well, but all she says is, "Like I'd take orders from you, District 8." Then with one last glare at me she stalks off, leaving Janaff and I alone at the knife station.

He turns to me, as though expecting some sort of response, but all I can do is just stand and stare at him. Part of me wants to thank him, but another part is repulsed by what he said. _Shouldn't we be training_. Like he's already one of them.

So in the end I just turn and walk away. He doesn't call me back, doesn't chase after me; of course he wouldn't, we're not even friends. But I still feel betrayed. I trusted him slightly, and look what he did. _Just like Dad, _I think. _And Erica. You can't trust anyone. They'll just hurt you in the end._

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini, District 9 Female<strong>

I watch the exchange between the two from Eight and the girl from Two before they all separate. The boy, Janaff, has joined with the Careers. While the girl, Precious, has not.

All throughout yesterday and today I kept close tabs on the Careers. Why? I'm not so sure myself. Everything they stand for is just abhorrent to me; kill kids, how could I kill kids when I have my own at home? How could you ask me to do that? But I need to get back and as much as I hate what's must be achieved in order to win the Games, that has to be my primary goal. I have to get back to Rachel.

So should I approach one of them? Not one of the younger ones, no, asking for permission from one of them just would feel odd. The eighteen year-olds then? The boy from Seven probably doesn't have the authority to enlist new members, and besides, I don't like the looks of him or the girl from Four. They're too. . . Career-like. A problem I will have to deal with eventually.

The boy from Four then? That might be alright, but he's training with his district partner right now. So all that's left is the boy from One, practicing all alone at the spear station. He'll have to do.

I casually walk over and heft a spear in my hand, feeling the familiar surface of the weapon. I was never trained like a Career, but when your father runs a major weaponry factory in District 9, you pick up a few tips. I've always been good with spears, and as I let the long weapon fly it hits the target in the exact center. The boy from One raises an eyebrow; so he was paying attention. I take a deep breath, steeling myself to do this. _I have to do it_, I tell myself. _It's the only way to get home._

"I hear the Career Pack is taking members from other districts this year," I say to start the conversation.

He looks over at them and shrugs. "I guess so. Why," he asks. "Are you interested?"

There's something about the tone with which he says the words that sets me off. "Maybe."

"Then go talk to someone who cares."

His words take me aback and seem to surprise him slightly as well. _Talk to someone who cares._ "So you're not with the Careers?" I ask, trying to make sense of his words.

He lets out a humourless laugh. "Like I'd ever join that pack of bloodthirsty creatures." He gives me a side-ways glance, and I know he must be thinking of me the same way he thinks of them. This angers me.

"They're the best way to survive in the Games," I say, but it's not for his benefit; it's for my own. All day yesterday up to this point I've been arguing over what the right thing to do is and what the smartest thing to do is.

"They kill innocent kids," he says louder.

"I have an innocent kid!" I burst out. "And I'll do whatever it takes to get back to her!"

Silence follows my little outburst and for awhile I think he's not going to answer as he picks up another spear and hurls it at the target. "How old?"

"What?" I ask, his question taking me off guard.

"Your child, how old?"

"She's five," I say and I can see him doing the calculations in his head. My daughter's five, I'm eighteen, that would mean that I had her at thirteen. I wait for the barrage of questions that I don't intend to answer, but he just looks at me, as though seeing me in a different light.

"Mine are two."

Again, I have to ask, "What?"

"My son and daughter, they're two."

A son and daughter? He means that . . . he has children too? I look at him again, noticing for the first time the bracelet around his wrist, on which rests an open locket, two smiling faces staring up at me from its depths. He notices and closes it quickly, seeming to expect some sort of insults to come from learning this information. But my thoughts are quite the opposite in fact. I never expected another parent to be in these Games. "Then why did you do it?" I ask him and he looks at me, confused. "At the reaping?"

I remember watching the recap, seeing the girl volunteer and then his name reaped. Achilles Atromitos, who let no one volunteer for him. If he had a family, why not let someone take his place? But the answer comes to me just as he voices it aloud. "Because I don't want them to throw away their lives. I don't want to have to look their parents in the eyes and know that I was the cause of their child's death."

I nod, understanding his answer. I don't know what I would have done if Rachel had been eligible for the reapings and sent to the Games. Just the thought makes me worry.

"I want to get back to my kids too," Achilles continues. "But I don't want to have to take kids from their families to do it." He looks around the gym and I follow his gaze, my eyes landing on the pair from Six, the boy from Three, the girl from Eleven. All too young to be here, with desperate families back home, waiting, praying for their return. And suddenly the thought that I ever wanted to join the alliance that will kill these children shames me. I don't want to take innocent lives; I just want to get home.

"I wish we could protect them," I say quietly, not realising that I had voiced the thought aloud. Achilles looks at me, the surprise on his face evident, which makes me stand by my idea even more. "Well, why couldn't we? Keep them alive as long as we can, do everything to protect them from the larger threats?"

"You think the Gamemakers would allow that?" he asks. And it's true. No matter what we do, only one person can come out of the arena alive.

But I don't believe that. I don't believe that whatever we do in the arena will be pointless because only one person can survive. "Alliances are made all of the time," I say. "Working together to keep one another alive, not caring about the fact that only one person can win the Games."

"So you'd ally with the younger ones," he says. "To try and protect them? Even if that meant that you might have to give up going back to see your family?"

He looks at me, honey coloured eyes boring into my own dark blue ones, as though he's trying to see the answer written across my soul. I hold his gaze but I wonder; would I do it? Give up seeing Rachel to save these kids? But really, there's no question. I cannot just sit around and watch young children die. What kind of a parent would I be? "Yes," I answer firmly. "I would."

He keeps looking at me, his gaze never wandering from mine. "Then maybe," he says slowly, "Maybe between the two of us, we can help keep some of them alive."

I think it over, pondering what he's saying. If I agree, then I am essentially throwing my life away, giving up the chance to live beyond the arena, to have a family with Rachel and . . . Noah. I didn't even think . . . I glance down at my hand, the ring on my finger. We could be together, the three of us, he's already pretty well Rachel's father. We could have a family, a future . . .

But what would he do in this situation? Would he kill other tributes to come home? Maybe in self-defence, but murdering an innocent twelve year-old just because it's one more out of the way? No, he wouldn't do that. And I couldn't either. So really, there's only one answer.

"Yes," I say to Achilles. "I think we could."


	19. Friends, Family, and the not so Friendly

_**Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I was busy helping out with a performance at my school, but it's all over now so updates will be faster over the next three days!**_

_**I mentionned Tears of Blood before in this story, but I'll repeat it here. Basically it's this fantastic thing where 24 authors are all collaborating to write an amazing Hunger Games story. Each one of us has created a different tribute (I'm in charge of the District 9 boy, Ari) and we're only about 3 chapters away from the Games! We've been having a bit of trouble with flamers lately, so if you read and review the story we'll all be extremely grateful. Thanks guys!**_

_**Anyways, don't forget to vote on the bloodbath poll! Now here is the last training day!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

". . . last training day today, so if there's anything left you two want to do. . ."

I look up from the bowl of cereal I was munching on at our escort, surprised. _Last day of training. _Today? Have I really spent that long in the Capitol already?

I mentally tick the days off: the day of the reaping, going onto the train. Then the morning on the train, arriving in the Capitol and the chariot rides. And finally, one day of training, and then two. Four days and yet it feels like it's gone by in a flash. Today is the halfway point; in four more days, I'll be heading into the Hunger Games.

The thought worries me, and I'm distracted throughout the rest of breakfast and still pondering the concept when our escort sends Bree and I off to training by ourselves. One day left of learning new things and interacting with tributes. I'll admit, I've picked up a few skills in terms of weapons and edible plants and such, but when it comes to knowing my opponents, I've got nothing. And after seeing the Careers' display on the first day, I'm starting to worry about that.

But they don't all have to be my opponents, right? There are alliances in the Games; the Careers have one. An alliance would be nice, I think. It might remind me of my friends back home.

I cast a sideways look at Bree, who's looking straight ahead at the elevator doors, fingering her crescent moon pendant. Often times people in the same districts will ally, considering they know each other better than anyone else. But Bree and I just really met on the day of the reaping and it wasn't exactly a joyful encounter. Surely that doesn't mean that I have to ally with her. But still, I feel obliged to do something, say something to her. I don't want it to seem like I'm planning to kill her.

"I'm going to find allies today," I announce suddenly, really to no one in particular. She looks at me, another look of curiosity like the ones she gave me on the day of the reapings. Although this one I can understand; I probably sound a bit idiotic making random statements in the elevator.

After a pause, she turns back to staring at the wall and speaks. "I . . . don't think I will," she says slowly. "Fine allies, I mean. I don't think that I could trust any of them."

Fair enough. I mean, these are all people who are planning on making it home, which will result in 23 of us dying. But the way she says it makes me feel as though there's something more behind it. "Is there a story in there somewhere?" I ask.

She looks at me sharply and the atmosphere immediately becomes tense. Somehow, I think I crossed the line. But after awhile she sees that I didn't mean it in a bad way and merely says, "What about your story?"

"My story?" I ask. She nods and I shrug. "Not much to tell. Have an obnoxious brother, a few friends, go to school. Nothing all that interesting."

"And the fire?"

I pause for a moment, taking in her words. Yes, the fire. Subconsciously I shift my weight, favouring my right leg more, the ghost of the burn I got that day tingling along my calf. It doesn't hurt anymore and it's barely been affecting my training, but the memories are still there.

Assuming that I'm not going to answer her, Bree speaks again. "You saved that little girl. You don't even live anywhere near that part of the district. But you went in anyways."

Like I need to be told what happened. I was there; I smelt the smoke, felt the heat of the fire, could hear the little girl's screams. True, I didn't live anywhere near the disaster, but I knew the little girl. She and her group of friends had caught me one time near the edge of the district, drawing, and she'd been the one who'd plucked up the courage to ask me if I could make a "pretty picture" of the four girls. I was reluctant at first; I didn't want word about my sketching getting back to my brother or father (honestly, with an obnoxious, arrogant father and brother who could fit in well with the Career districts, I doubt that either want to hear about my drawing talents). But in the end, I did make the picture, for the girls.

Was that really the only reason though? My fingers reach for the small, woven bracelet wrapped around my wrist, revealing that there was more to the story than that. My mother was unlike her husband in every possible way; quiet, shy, kind and gentle. She'd died giving birth to Clay. I'd been too young to understand at the time, but as I grew older I got the real story from my dad. How the doctors had told her that they could perform an operation to save her life, at the cost of her soon-to-be-born son's. It was either her or him, and she chose the latter, sacrificing herself so that Clay could live. I guess after that, I just sort of took it as my way of living. Put others first. Although that'll be pretty hard to accomplish in the arena.

"It's complicated," is all I say to Bree, who thinks the answer over and seems to find it acceptable. I guess we're both not all that big on sharing our personal lives.

The elevator's noise sounds and the doors slide gracefully open, allowing us out into the training facility. But just before I step outside, Bree stops me.

"I can't trust people enough to make alliances," she begins slowly. "But . . . there are some people I don't want to kill either. I don't want to kill you," she says, looking me straight in the eye. And I agree, I don't want to be the one to have to kill her either. She's just, well, I don't know, but she doesn't deserve to be in the Games.

"So, we part as friends?" I ask, holding out my hand. "And pray that we never meet in the arena?"

She nods and grasps my hand to shake on it. I grin, probably the first real smile I've made since leaving my friends and my district behind. "Great," I say. "Well, I'll see you around."

"Or hopefully not," she says back, and I have to smile at that. Was that a sense of humour I detected there? Well, she might not be a lost cause after all.

Finding allies is a lot harder than it sounds. I realised this as soon as I walked into the training room and saw all of the tributes already at specific stations, practicing and training hard on their last day before the private training sessions. Oh man, I'd completely forgotten about those until now. My palms start to get a little sweaty but I dry them on my pants. _Focus Lore, _I think. _You're here to find allies._

But it's not that easy. Everyone is just so . . . intimidating. With their fancy weapon skills and their pre-Games training and everything. I watch as before my eyes the boy from 7 completely mutilates a practice dummy and swallow hard. Well, there's one person I won't be allying with today . . .

_His partner on the other hand_, I think, my eyes landing on her training by the knife area. _She might not be so bad. _I saw her before when the two of us were learning about snares. She's smart and pretty skillful, while also being a year younger than me, therefore she's not nearly as scary to approach as the rest of them.

Although I'm beginning to doubt myself as I walk over to the daggers station and grab the last one before she can. She glares at me but I do my best innocent grin and throw it at the target. Not exactly in the center, but a lot better than some of the other tributes here can do. I turn to see her reaction to my throw only to find that she's already headed over to the target to collect the knives.

"So you're pretty good with those," I say, trying to start a conversation as I reach her at the target. She just throws me another condescending look before returning to pulling out the daggers. Obviously beating around the bush isn't going to work with this girl, so I get straight to the point. "You and me might make a good team."

"Is that what you want? An alliance?" She looks me up and down and I half expect her to turn up her nose, she acts so superior. "I don't think so." She strides away and it takes me a moment to process what she just said before I hurry after her.

"That's it? Just . . . no?" I ask. I mean, honestly, alliances could help you live in the Games. You'd think someone would take a little more time to decide on something that could ensure their survival. "Just like that?"

"Yes and my answer's not going to change," she says, returning to her spot and picking up a dagger, readying to throw. "So you might as well go ask someone else."

I'm left standing there like an idiot as she throws the knife, watching as it whooshes through the air and lands with a thunk on the target, much closer to the center than mine was. She doesn't acknowledge this fact, merely picking up another one and once again readying to throw. Well, I know a lost cause when I see one. I awkwardly walk away, my thoughts of having any possible allies in the Games completely squashed. She was just fourteen and she turned me down. There goes any chances I have of making friends in the arena.

I sit down, leaning my back against the wall and think about what to do next. With no allies, I'm going to have to come up with a pretty seamless battle strategy in the arena. But what? I close my eyes and try to think but my mind is disturbed as the sound of murmuring reaches my ears. I turn, trying to find the source of the noise, and see the District 6 boy clutching a book and reading it to himself.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pretty confused. Wouldn't he be wanting to get as much training in as he possibly could?

He looks fearfully from his book and sees me staring at him. I watch as his eyes widen and he tries to scoot away, an expression I've so often seen on my brother's victims. Something about that makes me want to do the exact opposite of what Clay would have done in this situation.

"It's okay," I say. "I'm not going to hurt you. I mean, we're kind of not allowed to yet, right?" I smile at my weak attempt at humour, but the joke is lost on him. And that's when I remember this boy from the recap of the reapings. Taralo Hicken, the fifteen year-old who was picked by the Capitol to go into the Games for attempting to avoid the ceremony. Fifteen . . . my age.

_No way Lore, no way. Alliances are supposed to help you in the arena. This guy would just be dead weight._

_But look at him! He'd never survive past the bloodbath if he didn't have some help._

_It's not up to you to make sure every single weakling lives long enough in the arena. Only one can come out, remember?_

_Always put others first._

_Oh fine, play the mom card. No use talking you out of it now._

_I'm going insane, _I think to myself as the pessimistic voice inside my head finally shuts up. Arguing with myself, what next? Talking to imaginary people who aren't there? Great.

But crazy or not, I've decided on something. This kid needs help; his wide, terrified eyes looking at me like I'm my brother, like I'm going to beat him up or something. And that's what really pushes me to speak. "Want to have an alliance?"

He just keeps staring at me, but I can see some of the fear leave his eyes. "A-an alliance?" he asks, speaking for the first time in a quiet, hesitant voice. "W-what's that?"

My doubt slowly seeps back into me at his words. He doesn't know what an alliance is? Does he even understand the concept of the Games? But I push forwards. "It's like, we join together to try and help each other in the arena. Like friends," I think, and the images of my buddies back home flash before my eyes. Romulus and Remus, joking and laughing together. And Basil, always quiet and shy. Sort of like this kid.

"Friends?" Taralo asks. Then he turns away from me and asks, "What do you think Zephyr?"

I look around, wondering who the heck he's talking about. I'm pretty sure I would remember a tribute named Zephyr. But then as I glance back to Taralo, seeing him fully focused on a patch of nothingness close by, nodding like he's having a conversation, the thought hits me. He's crazy and I have absolutely nothing on this kid when it comes to being out of your mind. More doubt hits me and I'm about to just get up and leave when he turns back and says shyly, "T-that'd be nice. To be friends."

I freeze, unsure what to do. This guy is insane, but what can I say? _Sorry kid, I want an ally who's not a lunatic._ That certainly would be my brother's reaction, although it'd probably be accompanied with a snide laugh or a mean shove. But I'm not Clay and I never want to risk turning into him.

"Okay," I say, not quite believing the words coming out of my mouth. "That's great."

Taralo gives a small smile, the only one I've seen him wear since watching the recap of the reapings. Then he goes back to his book and I'm left wondering exactly what I've gotten myself into.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

I watch the boy from 5 having his conversation with the one from 6 before rolling my eyes and turning away. I remember that kid from the recap of the reapings, and if the District 5 guy is so desperate that he wants _him _on his side, then I'm better off without them. I've never needed friends to back me up, all I need is the unconditional love from Niko and the other animals we keep.

_Get them out of your head, _I scold myself. _You can't be thinking of the animals now. _Because in reality, one of the only ways to get food in the arena is by trapping and hunting the creatures that live there. I'm excellent with snares, owing to the fact that I've frequently released animals from them back In District 7 and then reset them so it just seemed like the hunter caught nothing, but capturing and killing real live animals is going to be much more of a challenge. My mother has raised me so that I've never eaten any meat in my entire life; what will she think of me when I'm forced to do that to survive?

_She'll understand, _I think. _Plenty of parents accept the fact that their kids had to kill others to get back home. She'll just be relieved that I've made it safely back to her. _

Of course, I'm sure my district partner will have no qualms about killing others. I turn to see him and sure enough he's tearing into two training dummies with his meat cleaver-like knives. He senses my gaze and turns to smile at me, a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. But it's nothing I'm not used too and I give him my customary glare in return. He nods his head over to the last mannequin and despite telling myself not to look, I do. At first, nothing special pops out at me; it's just another practice dummy. But then, as Rowan traces its arm, I notice the splash of colour on its grey surface. There's a small, red bracelet tied around it's wrist, a shimmering heart pendant dangling from the fabric.

I'm unable to hide my shock and my eyes widen as I glance down at my wrist, where until now my grandmother's bracelet has sat comfortably, giving me a feeling of ease as I train. However today, it's not there.

My shock turns to fury as I glare daggers at Rowan, who almost lovingly caresses the dummy's face with one of his knives before smoothly cutting into the fabric and slicing off half of its face. He proceeds to completely ravage the mannequin until it is completely unrecognisable as something that was supposed to be in a human shape. The only part left untouched is the arm holding my bracelet. I start to storm over there just as he cuts the fabric of my token, letting it fall to the ground.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demand angrily as I reach him.

"Just showing you a little taste of what'll happen in the arena," he says back, his dark brown eyes boring into my own blue ones. "You should be thanking me. Rarely does one ever get to see what a Career has planned for them until it's too late."

I work hard to remain cool on the outside, but inside my brain is whirring with a multitude of thoughts. I remember seeing him the first day of training, joining with the Careers and even though I tried to lie to myself, I felt nervous. Rowan on his own can be intimidating, but with the Careers he really might manage to kill me in the arena.

But thoughts like that won't help me in the Games; I can't doubt myself, I have to believe that I'll win. Which I will. So I stand right up close to Rowan and say, "Give me back my token."

His eyes narrow at the idea of my giving him a command and he bring his foot down hard on my grandmother's bracelet, cracking the heart pendant. I gasp in fury and clench my fists but he remains as calm as he was before. "Sorry about that," he says quietly, let menacingly. "Next time I'll aim for your real heart." With that, he brushes past me to regroup with the Careers, leaving me shaking with anger as I attempt to collect the pieces of my grandmother's last gift.

It's not my token I'm angry about; no, I've seen the technology the Capitol has, no doubt they'll have something to glue the pendant back together, good as new. It's the threat that really sets me off. He thinks that he's so terrifying, that just by walking around he can inspire fear into people's hearts. Well, he's not going to get to me that easily. I'll be waiting for him in the arena. Only one of us can survive and I can guarantee Rowan now that it will _not _be him.

* * *

><p><strong>Noah James, District 12 Male<strong>

Ever since Gabriel was born, I've developed a protective sort of nature. He was so sickly that others would tease him, though they stopped as soon as I made it clear that anyone who harassed by brother had to answer to me. I always thought that this aspect of my personality was a good thing.

But now that we're here, training with the other tributes, I need to find a way to turn it off. Every time someone, mostly the Careers, torments the younger kids, be it the girl and boy from 6 or the girl from 7 or the boy from 9, I feel an overwhelming urge to intervene, something I'm going to have to get over once the Games begin. As much as I hate to say it, all of these kids have to die from me to get back home. I have to win, so that I can help Gabriel again.

"So, where to next?"

I turn to Malia as she looks around at the different stations, scanning for one we haven't gone to yet. After the chariot rides we sort of just . . . formed an alliance. Neither of us came out and asked about it, but it was just a sort of unspoken agreement. We're coming from the least popular and least experienced district. Neither of us have the advantage of knowing how to use weapons before we came here. So it just seemed kind of natural that, being the underdogs, we'd stick together. After all, even if just one of us gets home, it'll benefit both our families. But alliances aren't always simple, and every time I look at Malia I can't help but think that she'll have to die so I can help Gabriel. And if I keep having those thoughts, our alliance is just going to crumble.

"Wait," I say, catching her by the arm as she starts to head to the fire-making station.

"What? You want to do something else?" she asks curiously.

"No, it's not that," I say hesitantly, not really knowing how to proceed. She waits patiently as I try to find the words to express what I want to say. "I have a brother," I begin slowly. "A really . . . sickly brother. All my life I've had to protect him from others in the district who might harm him, but now that I'm here I can't help him. And the winner should be one of us. So if I don't make it I was thinking that maybe you might . . ." I peter off, words failing me once again. "Keep an eye on him."

She looks at me for a second longer, as though trying to read my expression, but then she smiles. "Of course I will," she says. "I think I've seen him around. Gabriel James, right?" I nod. "Don't worry, he'll be fine. And, if I don't make it, will you watch out for my little brother too?"

Her little brother; of course, she has one too, how could I forget? The friendly fourteen year-old I see helping her family with their sheep. Of course, I remember Malia's friends, always standing around talking and laughing with her. I'm sure the three of them will watch out for her family.

A pang of sadness hits me and, not for the first time, I wish that I had made more of an effort to talk to the kids my age in the district. It would have been nice to have others watching out for me and for Gabriel; he wouldn't be entirely my burden. But what am I thinking? Gabriel was never a burden, he's my brother and I love him. That's why I protect him. Still, friends might have helped. I guess now I may never know.

But then again, seeing Malia smile up at me makes me think otherwise. Maybe I'm not entirely friendless. We're going into these Games together, we trust each other and the burden of the arena will be much less when the two of us are working side by side. So perhaps I do have a friend; I don't have to be alone all the time.

"It's a deal," I say and Malia's smile widens before she heads off to the fire station, beckoning me to follow. And I do, because together we're stronger. Together, our families will win, even if one of us doesn't. Together, we're friends.

* * *

><p><em>Later that evening . . .<em>

**Code Schuyler, District 2 Male**

I collapse onto my bed, ready to pass out from exhaustion and nervousness. Tomorrow is our private training sessions and I have no idea what I'm going to do for them. Meredith made it clear that if any of the Careers get below an 8 for our training score we'll be officially kicked out of the pack. So of course, Rhine had to cover up her anxiety by throwing out a bunch of degrading insults. Most of them aimed at _me_.

I made myself a promise as soon as we got on the train together and she began her snide comments that I wouldn't let myself get riled up by what she said. Well, that plan crashed and failed, especially before the chariot rides when she insulted my grandmother. After that, our escort had had enough of our bickering and shouted at us for an hour about good behaviour, making it clear that whoever tried to keep fighting would not be getting any sponsors. All well and good for Rhine; her insults are subtle, just enough so that our escort has no idea what she's saying but I can understand it perfectly. But unfortunately I can't do anything about it; subtle insults are not my forte.

I punch my pillow into a more comfortable position, using a bit more force than necessary, and try to calm my mind. I have to keep a clear head for the private training sessions tomorrow, and I have to maintain a positive aura. If I'm feeling negative, then I will have negative results.

But after a few minutes, it's clear that I won't be able to get to sleep. At the state my mind is in, I'll be having nightmares about the Games and my scoring session all night long. I sigh and sit up again, wondering if it's better to get a restless sleep or none at all. Then I remember the gift my grandmother gave me during the goodbyes.

_The Peacekeepers finally manage to get my uncle out of the room, while he's still singing my praises about volunteering and how he can't wait to mentor me in the Games. The door closes and his loud, boisterous shouts are cut off, but it isn't long before the door opens again, this time revealing a much quieter, dearly loved family member._

"_Hi grandma," I say as I get up to hug her and help lead her to a seat. _

_She swats my hand away playfully. "I'm not that old Code, I can walk by myself." I grin as she makes her way to the chair and sits as I resume my position on the couch. "Well, first off, congratulations on volunteering."_

"_Thanks! I didn't think I'd ever make it but . . ." I gesture around the room. "Here I am!"_

_She smiles a toothy grin. "Here you are indeed. Now," she continues, bringing a small package out of the folds of her dress. "Take this."_

"_What is it?" I ask, going to open it again put stopping as she raps me on the knuckles._

"_It's your token. And don't open it yet! Only when the time is right."_

"_But I already have a token," I say, pulling the dull gray rock my uncle had in his Games out of my pocket. The two of us look at it for a second, then my grandmother snatches it away and tosses it towards the corner of the room._

"_Oops."_

_I laugh. "Well, I guess I'm now token-less."_

"_Not anymore," she says, tapping the parcel. "Just remember, only open it when it feels right."_

"_How will I know when that is?"_

"_Oh Lord, Code, didn't I teach you anything about the supernatural powers that surround us in this world? Trust me, you'll know when it's the right time."_

_I grin at her. "Okay grandma."_

The memory also brings a smile to my lips, despite the depressed mood I'm in. I haven't opened it yet, though I've certainly been tempted; it just never felt right. But now, well, now I could use a bit of cheering up.

I grab the package from its place on my nightstand and unwrap it with loving care before gasping at what's inside. I pull it gently out and admire the beauty for contained in the parcel was the trinket I'd admired the most in my grandmother's collection, one I'd tried numerous times to replicate but had never succeeded. The dried strips of seaweed rustle together, creating a calming sound from where they've been weaved expertly together, while the tiny, delicate shells glisten from the ends of the dream catcher. For a while all I can do is gaze in awe at the masterful detail of the object, trying to take in it's almost other-worldly beauty.

"Lights out!" A sharp voice shouts from the door, accompanied by the sound of loud knocking. I turn off the lamp, but still sit in the dark, caressing the dream catcher. I wish I could spend forever looking at it, but I do have to rest for tomorrow. Before I lay down however, I get up and take down the mirror hanging above my bed, before putting the dream catcher in its place. It dangles there, turning slightly and I smile, before getting back into my bed and falling into a deep, nightmare-free, restful sleep.


	20. Trying Their Hardest

_**Alright, so here we have the private training sessions! I know that I've already used Janaff's POV, but I figured that he'd be more interesting to watch in this chapter. Don't worry, those who still have yet to get a POV in the Capitol will get one soon. It's just some tributes get one more than others, not because I like them more or anything, but because they're doing something interesting that chapter that I think you guys will want to read.**_

_**Anyways, I'll stop distracting you now. Enjoy the chapter!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

"Achilles Atromitos!"

There it is; the first name called. I watch as the eighteen year-old rises from his place next to the District 9 girl and heads into the room for his private training demonstration, not looking at the many sneers and smirks the other Careers are giving him as he brushes by. I, however, keep my face entirely neutral. It doesn't make sense to me why everyone's so irritated that he didn't join with the Careers. I mean, they allow other people into their alliance; why can't they let people leave just as easily?

But it's not easy, not by a long shot, and as if she can sense my thoughts Meredith turns back to the group and says, "Remember, if you go in there and come out with a score of 7 or lower, you're will no longer be welcomed with the Careers."

"No pressure," Rhine adds, smirking, and glancing my way. I look down and realise that I've been unconsciously wringing my hands for the past five minutes. "Try not to have a mental breakdown, Janaff."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say sarcastically back, but it doesn't come out as harsh as I intended. Truthfully, I was nervous. I should have confidence in my intelligence, it's what got me this far, but I doubt I'll impress the Gamemakers just by walking up to them and giving them a detailed analysis of each tribute.

It doesn't help that pretty much all of my supposed "allies" are doubting me. Perrin was the only one who really saw that I had what it took to be with the Careers and I'm guessing that he decided to keep the true extent of my abilities a secret. Which makes sense, I guess; the Careers are tough and have the training, no one could overpower them. But someone could outsmart them, and that's what they're all afraid of. Still, I wish that he could have revealed to them a bit more of my talents; at least then they wouldn't treat me like some sort of nerd.

"Cordelia Schylla!"

The youngest Career member smiles as heads towards the door, seeming just as happy as ever. Of course she is; I've seen her shoot in training, she's guaranteed an 8 at least.

Slowly, our alliance dissipates as Rhine, Code and Perrin are each called into the room and I can almost visualise what they're doing to show off their talents. Rhine with a sword, Code with the knives, Perrin with a trident. Each of them have their own special weapons. And me? I don't have a particular weapon I'm skilled with, unless you count my brain. I just need a way for the Gamemakers to see it in action . . .

"Meredith Blade!"

The co-leader of the Careers stands up and strides towards the door. Before heading through however, she turns to Rowan and I and gives us a piercing stare. "Remember, 8 or above." And then she's gone.

"And then there were two," I mutter, and Rowan glances at me with an eyebrow raised. "So, any idea what you're going to do?"

"The sessions are private for a reason," he answers back, giving me a cold smile, the look in his eyes making it clear that I don't want to know what he's going to do. So we lapse into silence, and I make no further attempt at conversation. Out of all the Careers, Rowan has to be the one that intimidates me the most. At first I was more worried about Meredith when I found the one flaw in her fighting technique. She's just so . . . detached from what she does. Not in a crazy sense, like you'd expect from the District 9 male tribute, but she lives to fight; there's no emotional connection to anything or anyone in her life. Except for Perrin. He can keep her in control just ever so slightly, and he balances her out when it comes to personality. They actually make pretty good leaders together.

But Rowan, he's a different story. I can see his weaknesses, he lets his anger control him on the occasion, he doesn't have great aim from a distance, but that doesn't stop him. He just lets his rage overpower any of those flaws, washing them away with waves of fury. I'm just worried that one day, he'll lose complete control.

Districts 5 and 6 are eventually called and I'm already mentally calculating their scores. None of them could possibly get above a six; two fifteen year-olds, one of which seems a bit insane, a fourteen year-old and the youngest tribute here who's just twelve. _But it's not their scores I have to worry about_, I remind myself. _It's mine_.

"Rowan Hollows!"

I look over at the last remaining Career besides myself, but he makes no move to stand, just smirking and relaxing back into his chair. Finally one of the Peacekeepers walks over and he sighs dramatically before rising, shooting his district partner a look before heading into the private session room. She glares back at him and turns away; I have to admit, for someone who's just fourteen, she's got guts. I don't know what I'd do if I was the sole focus of Rowan's anger.

It doesn't take long for him to do whatever he's doing (probably completely shredding some more training dummies) and then his partner is called. At this point I've started wringing my hands again, my glasses sliding down my nose as I break out into a nervous threat. _Calm down, _I repeat to myself, closing my eyes and trying to visualise myself back home in the library. _Just stay calm._

"Janaff Skye!"

My eyes shoot open and I stand, heading to the door with much more confidence then I feel. The Peacekeepers nod, acknowledging that it is my turn, and I head into the next room, knowing that my very life could depend on what decisions I make here.

Without all of the tributes training in it, the room looks huge, the Gamemakers sitting up high at their table making me feel even more insignificant. I can see that they've begun to grow bored after watching so many training sessions, but they quieten as they see me enter. They've watched me throughout training, and I'm sure they're all waiting to see why a scrawny, District 8 boy managed to make it into the Careers. Now's the time to show them; to make them believe that it's I who will come out alive and win the Games. I'll have the victory over the six Careers who are my allies, I will eventually defeat them.

_Careers._

_Defeat._

I smile, my nerves and anxiety washing away. Because I have a plan.

First, I head to the training dummies, all lined up in a row. These ones are special though; they're wired with some sort of technology that allows them to actually move and fight tributes. You can see the gears and wires through the clear plastic that covers them. I've studied them during the training days, analysed every detail and now I know how to make them work. But first, for show, I gather a handful of weapons and place one in each dummies hand. A bow and arrow, a knife, a sword, a trident, an axe, and a meat cleaver. The Gamemakers laugh as they realise what I've done; each fighting dummy now represents each of the Careers. But the last one holds nothing.

I turn the first on, and the Cordelia/dummy sends an arrow shooting forwards, which I anticipate and dive to the side, running around to the back of the dummy, it swats at me but again, I know what move it'll make before it does. Nice thing about these mannequins, they follow even more of a pattern than people do.

I get to the back and lank out the control panel, not hesitating to dive into the mess of wires that can be found beneath the plastic cover. The dummy tries another swing, but I dodge and just grab at the wires once more, grabbing an arrow from the thing's own quiver and using it to slice certain coils and then attach others to them. Immediately the dummy stops moving and the Gamemakers gasp as I step around to admire my handiwork.

Through the clear, plastic coating protecting the dummy, three wires turn pure white as heat courses through them, illuminating a clear letter D on the mannequin before the heat becomes too much and the thing bursts into flames. The Gamemakers leap back in shock, but I don't take the time to see their reactions; I'm already moving on to fight the next one.

Five more dummies have burst into flames by the time I finish with them, though not before a glowing letter appears on each one. I step back and watch as the Gamemakers whisper amongst themselves about what it could mean, and then they finally turn back to stare at me in awe as they realise what I've spelt out.

D

E

F

E

A

T

Defeat.

They're still gaping at me and the message I'm sending; how I'm allying with the Careers but eventually, I will defeat them. I just smile back at them and head over to the last dummy, who still remains untouched. I slip my token, a locket containing pictures of my parents before they died, over its head and the Gamemakers immediately realise that this one represents me. But I don't bother to turn it on and fight it, just head to its control panel and quickly rewire a few things. The Gamemakers lean back, expecting another explosion of fire, but all the dummy does is raise its arms above its head in a victorious pose, clearly saying, _I win._

The Gamemakers look from me to it, then to the smoldering remains of the other six dummies, then back to me. And by now I can barely keep the smile off my face. By their expressions, I know I'm getting at least an 8. I'll be sticking with the Careers. But eventually, eventually, they too will be defeated.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

"Calican Sareamer!"

I swallow nervously and stand, heading over to the training room door. I still have no idea what I'm going to show the Gamemakers for my private session. Throughout the three days of training I've managed to pick up a few skills, but none that would really impress the Gamemakers, especially after they've already seen 18 other tributes perform, some of them being trained Careers. To be honest, I'm just thankful that I'm alone, without . . .

"Good luck Cally!"

I groan inwardly as Devera's voice rings out through the waiting room, drawing some odd looks from the District 11 and 12 tributes. She's Keya's sister and I figured that I should look out for her because of that, but sometimes I think I may have been a little _too _nice.

Whatever it was, Devera seems to have gotten the impression that I like her. Well, not just like her, but _like _like her. I mean – oh for goodness sake, she thinks I'm in love with her.

I always knew that she had fantasies about meeting her dream guy and everything; Keya told us all about that. But Devera seems to think that the Games are nothing more than an excuse to find true love. Don't ask me why, I personally don't see _anything _romantic about being sent to your death, but apparently Devera does. It was fine when we were together on the train, but as soon as she watched the recaps and saw every eligible guy going into the arena with us, I guess she decided to stick with me. And I haven't been able to get rid of her ever since.

_Maybe you're just not trying hard enough, _I think to myself. There's always the option of being flat-out rude like Mare, one of our mentors, but I just can't bring myself to do it. She's just, well, she's Keya's sister.

The memories of my last goodbyes to my friends and family come rushing back to me. It was sad and emotional, but there was a certain tenseness present as well.

_I wave my parents away, who are still congratulating me on my willing sacrifice to save another boy from having to go to his death this year. Willing, yeah right. But I pretend that was my intention all along, and just smile and hug them before their time is up._

_The door opens again and Poe steps through, looking sad and somewhat nervous, a huge change from her normally happy demeanor. "Hey Calican," she says, and we hug. "You can win this, you know you can."_

_I nod and then step back. "Where are Kastler and Keya?" I ask, and Poe bites her lip._

"_With Devera," she says, and my heart drops as I remember who my competition is for the Games; Keya's sister. Only one of us can live._

"_They're not coming to say goodbye, are they?" I ask, though I already know the answer._

"_Don't think about it like that!" Poe says, trying to comfort me. "They want you to come home, they really do. But Devera . . ."_

"_Is family, I get it." I say, not harshly, but more in a tired tone. Suddenly I just feel exhausted; there's too many emotions wallowing up inside me trying to break out into the world despite my efforts to hold them in. I feel sad and angry at the two of them for not coming to spend what is probably their last moment with me, but at the same time I know I can't blame them. Family comes first._

"_You still have your lucky stone?" Devera asks, changing the topic. I snap out of my reverie and look at her. Our lucky stones, each of us have one, pretty grey-blue rocks the four of us found one day and decided to keep, for luck and as a symbol of our friendship._

"_Yeah. Why?"_

_She gives me a playful nudge. "For luck, silly. Why else would I ask about it? Just . . . remember us in the arena. And you'll come home." She smiles and I smile back and for a moment all of the bad feelings, the despair and the rage and the hopelessness, they all disappear. I can come home. All I need is my friends. And a little luck._

But now, I'm not so sure I have the former. Could Keya ever forgive me if I came home alive, even if I hadn't been directly the cause of Devera's death? No, I don't think she could ever forget that, in the end, it was between her sister and me.

So is winning not the answer? But it has to be, when the alternative is death, winning is always better. That's why our mentors are trying to help us win; because they know it's the better option. Or is that really what they believe? I think about our three victors; Mare, rude and shutting everyone out of her life, Hoot, drinking his way into oblivion, and Hazel, a prisoner of her own mind, not acknowledging anyone who comes near her. Is that what winning is like? No, it isn't. But it is the only option other then death. And suddenly, the reality hits me; in the Hunger Games, there _is _no winner. In the end, we're all just victims of the Capitol, pawns in their Games. And there's not a thing we can do about it.

"_Ahem."_

I look up, not aware that I was standing in front of the Gamemakers, who are all staring down at me. The one in the middle speaks. "You may begin your training session."

And I do. Because really, what choice do I have?

* * *

><p><strong>Devera Let, District 10 Female<strong>

I watch Calican go in, a smile on my face. He'll do great, I know he will. After all, he has to. There's no way that someone could risk their life protecting me in the Games if they got a two in training. Someone with a score that low would be so stupid that they'd probably slip and fall on their own knife!

But Calican's not stupid, Keya tells me that he and their other friend, Poe, are like, braniacs. So I'm sure he'll be great in the arena. Unlike some of these other male tributes, who could compete with some of the boys back home in my district for the idiot of the year award.

Like the boys from Districts 6 and 9. I don't know what's wrong with them, but they're nutcases for sure. I never saw them training, just staring off into space or reading a book. Honestly, reading! Right before the Games begin! And my teacher used to say I wasted my time.

Of course, I didn't overexert myself during our three training days. No, if there's any really tiring work to be done in the arena, I'm sure Calican will do it for me. But I did pick up a few skills which might come in handy. My job tending the geese already taught me how to wield a sturdy rod, and when you combine that with the attack patterns they teach you here, well, no one will be able to call me just a damsel in distress. But sometimes I may have to act like one, just to boost Calican's confidence or something like that. My sister tells me that guys need to have their egos stroked from time to time and she has a boyfriend, so she must be right.

"Devera Let!"

I rise from my seat and walk excitedly to the door, wondering what Calican did for them. Whatever it was, I'm sure it was fantastic. But right now I don't need to focus on that. This is my time to shine.

The Gamemakers don't seem particularly attentive when I enter, and upon seeing my small, fourteen year-old stature they pay even less attention. Well, time to change that around. First though, I need my weapon. I spot a large staff hanging on a rack of tools, but it wouldn't be very interesting if I just went over there and picked it up, now would it? Instead I walk over to the camouflage station, where tons of paints and different coloured dyes are resting on a wooden table. It's a bit short, but I can work with that.

Clasping my hand around one of the table's legs, I wrench it upwards with all my might. I guess the Capitol citizens never expected a tribute to attack one of their tables, because the delicate piece of furniture easily tears apart as I rip its leg off. The dyes and paints crash to the floor as the table loses its balance and falls; all in all, it's a pretty big mess. But I ignore it and traipse back over to the training dummies, as the Gamemakers watch, their eyes now fixated on me. Excellent.

Without warning I lunge at the mannequin, swinging my staff and hitting it right in the stomach. I don't stop, swerving and dodging as I whack it again and again and again. Slowly the dummy begins to cave, and soon I'm standing in a pile of stuffing, all that remains of the training mannequin. I stare up at the Gamemakers, a huge smile on my face. They seem a bit taken aback by what I just did; I guess they weren't expecting it at all.

"You . . . may go," one of them says slowly and I nod, turning to leave. But just before I do, I turn back to face them and do a little curtsy. Have to remind them that I'm not just an expert staff wielder; I'm also a refined lady.

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

"Dylian Carte!"

I stand, slightly nervous but not showing it to anyone. Although really, who is there left to show? My district partner, Emerald, and the two from 12 are the only ones left waiting for our session. Everyone else has gone.

That just makes my job of impressing the Gamemakers all the more hard. Surprisingly though, they seem to be less distracted than I was anticipating. But still, they're greedy, unobservant pigs; exactly the kind of people who might fall prey to a cunning thief if one happened to pass by. Which, in this case, one did.

I grab a bow and arrow and sling them onto my back before heading to the rock climbing wall, which is conveniently situated right next to the platform where the Gamemakers are sitting. I don't hesitate to scale the wall, reaching a point where I'm slightly above the men and women who are supposed to be judging my performance, and then I hop down from the wall and right onto their platform with them.

They sit back in their chairs in shock for a moment as I give a cheery wave, and then the Head Gamemaker speaks up.

"Young man," she says, her words dripping with derision. "You are supposed to be performing for us."

"But you've all watched so many people show off, I thought I might give you a little break. Why don't we just chat instead, get to know each other a little?" I ask cheerily. The Gamemaker right next to me, a pudgy old man, snorts and grabs another pastry from the dish set out in front of him. I grab his hand right as he brings it to his mouth. "I wouldn't if I were you. You really don't need the extra calories."

He makes a noise of outrage and I just keep my innocent grin on. I knew these people were unperceptive; he didn't even notice as I slipped his shiny, gold watch off of his fat wrist. The Head Gamemaker silences him with a gesture and turns to me. "Really, if you're not going to show us any of your talents then you might as well just leave.

I sigh theatrically and nod. "Alright, if you want." I pull an arrow from the quiver and notch it in the bow, slipping the watch onto its shaft right before I let it fly through the air until it hits the rafter right above us with a satisfying thunk.

"What's that hanging from it?" One Gamemaker asks, noticing the glinting watch, and soon they're all squinting at it, trying to see what it is. The pudgy man is the first to recognise it. "My watch!" he roars, and glares at me.

"Oh, sorry, didn't see that. Hang on, I'll have it back to you in a second." I flash him another smile and leap from the platform back onto the climbing wall, heading all the way to the top with ease. Once I hoist myself onto the wooden beams that crisscross the ceiling I yank the arrow out of the rafters and grab the watch. But I can't just go back down there and hand it to him. No, I need some sort of big finale.

My smile grows as I see the rope tied to the beam a few feet away from me. Just what I needed. I place one foot in front of the other and begin to walk along the beam, earning a small gasp from one of the Gamemakers. But I feel perfectly safe; I've had to do this numerous times in our district, whether I'm walking on the peaks of roofs of the slim branches of trees. Once I reach the rope I stretch it out, making sure that it's not too long. I don't want to fall crashing to the ground.

It seems short enough, so I quickly, yet subtly tie the other end around my leg, using a nice, secure knot I learnt from my days spent in training. Peering down at the Gamemakers, I can see all of their eyes on me, but none of them seem to have seen the rope. Good, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Without warning I dive off the beam, plunging head first through the air as the shouts of numerous Gamemakers are heard. My fall continues and for the briefest second I worry that I underestimated the amount of rope; but then my leg is yanked upwards as the rope reaches its limit and I hang, dangling from the ceiling, right in front of the pudgy Gamemaker. His face is still a mixture of shock and anger, and with my biggest smile yet I reach out my hand and give him his watch. "I believe this belongs to you."

* * *

><p><em>After the training sessions . . .<em>

"Settle down, settle down!" The Head Gamemaker, Lilibeth Bersone slammed her fist onto the table, finally silencing her crew. "You're not children. Get a hold of yourselves, really."

They all stared at her guiltily and slightly afraid; she had a fearsome reputation amongst the Gamemakers. If anyone upset her, they were fired. That was it, no second chances. But unfortunately she had no time to hire new people during the Games, so until this year was over she was stuck with this crew of idiots.

"Now," she began again. "Let's discuss the scores. First up, District 1 male."

"He showed excellent skill with a variety of weapons," one Gamemaker said. "I'd say a nine."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table and Lilibeth jotted down the score in her notes. "And his district partner?" she asked.

"Superb shooting," another said. "Eight. I'd say the same for both tributes for District 2 as well."

"Good, good," Lilibeth said, writing their answers down. "Continue."

"District 3 was less than impressive. Four for the boy, three for the girl. They were so inexperienced despite the three days they were given to practice."

"On the other hand," a younger Gamemaker spoke up. "District 4 was extremely impressive. I'd say nine for the boy and a ten for the girl."

Such high scoring created whispers around the table, but none jumped to argue so Lilibeth nodded and wrote down the first double digit scoring of the day. "And 5?"

"Go with their district number; fives for both of them. Not amazing, not god-awful either."

"And I'd say a seven for the District 6 girl," the young one said again. Immediately people jumped to dispute her scoring.

"She wasn't talented at all!"

"Nothing impressive there."

"But she's twelve and she had pretty good shooting techniques," the younger said. "Doesn't that deserve some leniency?"

Another Gamemaker scoffed. "We don't have mercy on the young ones! If we did, then we wouldn't even have the Hunger Games!"

"But-"

"She'll get a six then," Lilibeth said, cutting off the argument. "Is that satisfactory?" The two paused in their fight and, after a moment's thought, nodded huffily. "Good," the Head Gamemaker continued. "Her partner, however, I will be giving a two."

"I think we all agree on that," said a rowdy Gamemaker, laughing. "I mean, he was pathetic!"

"Indeed," murmured Lilibeth. "District 7?"

"Seven for the girl, nine for the boy."

"I thought as much." Lilibeth scribbled the numbers down. "And District 8?"

"Another seven for the girl. And for the boy . . ." The Gamemaker who'd spoke hesitated. "I'd say a ten."

"Agreed, that was a pretty impressive display, especially from a District that makes textiles," another said.

"Oh, so you allow leniency for districts, but not age," the younger Gamemaker muttered sullenly.

"Moving on," Lilibeth said before another argument could break out. "What about District 9?"

"The girl was impressive, I'd have to say a nine for her. The boy however, well . . . he didn't do anything."

The Gamemakers all paused to remember the odd male tribute who'd just vaguely stood in the room, playing with the paint at the camouflage station and not answering any of them when he was asked questions. "One then," Lilibeth decided, deftly writing it in her notebook.

"The District 10 male tribute was much better. I'd say a six for him and a five for his partner."

"As for District 11," the pudgy Gamemaker interjected, still fingering his treasured watch. "Zero for the boy."

Lilibeth laughed at that. "And what proof could you possibly have to justify that score?"

"He stole my watch!"

"Oh please, you got it back." She rolled her eyes at him. Honestly, when these Games were done, he would be _so _fired. "Eight for the boy," she continued, ignoring the fat Gamemaker's protests. "And five for the girl. Which leaves us with District 12."

"Six for the girl, seven for the boy," another Gamemaker said without hesitation.

Lilibeth looked around the table, but no one argued. "Alright then," she said, writing down the last two numbers. "Gentlemen, I believe we have our scores."


	21. An Epiphany or Two

_**Sorry for the long wait everybody! I was away on vacation and I've now got a cold, so this might not be the best chapter ever. But guess what! After this, there's only going to be three more chapters until the Games finally begin. Three more chapters! Who's excited?**_

**_This is the last chapter where we get tributes who haven't had POVs in the Capitol yet, so for the next three chapters you'll be seeing tributes that you've already seen. I'm really sorry because not everybody can have two Capitol POVs, so some tributes will be getting more than others. That's not a sign that your tribute will be dying in the bloodbath; it just means that I couldn't fit them in. I do have some plans for certain tributes in these next few chapters, which you will see soon enough, and I have some plans for tributes in the arena. I just really end up writing who I think would be interesting at that point in time :)_**

**_So hopefully you guys will like these next few chapters and are excited for the Games! Enjoy!_**

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

I wake up before everyone else on our floor, as per usual. I don't know where Perrin found the will to get up so early on the day of the reapings ceremony, but I haven't seen that attitude towards morning-time since. As for our escort and the other mentors, well, they're just lazy.

However, despite the lack of people around, breakfast is already set out on the table and I'm sure if I called an Avox would come running. I idly begin to make myself a sandwich with the bread, however my thoughts are elsewhere.

Today is the day each tribute spends time with their mentors and escorts to be coached for the interviews. Obviously there's no way I'll let some fat old Capitolite and a bunch of retired victors boss me around but still, I'm beginning to wonder if there may actually be something to gain from listening to them. Unlike the private training sessions, where I knew exactly what I was going to do and had the confidence that I would walk away with the highest score out of all the tributes, the interviews are an event I'm less sure of. With my ten in training, I doubt that I really have to worry about getting sponsors but still, the Capitol people are fickle. If there's a pitiable tribute out there with dead parents or a lover left behind or a tragic back story, they'd sponsor that tribute over one with the most likely chance of winning in a heartbeat. After all, what they want is a show.

So where does that leave me? And not for the first time, I find myself returning to the conversation I had with Perrin on the train. Maybe I really should try to feel some emotion during these interviews, if it'll help me out. Play up the dead parents card; after all, they don't know who was behind it. Create some sort of sob-story involving a father who had always wanted his daughter to win the Hunger Games. Or something like that.

I have to snort at that. Am I really planning on making the Capitol feel pity for me? The mere thought is ridiculous. _No, _I decide. I don't think I'd be able to play that sort of angle with a straight face. So I'll go as myself; after all, my ten in training should be enough to show them that I'll be the one immerging victorious from the arena. Any idiot could see that.

_But you're not the only one with a ten,_ I think, and my mind returns to the memories of the night before. Sitting on the couch, waiting for the training scores to come up, a slight smirk on my face, knowing that there was no possible way the boy from Eight could come up with a high enough score to keep him in the Careers. That would show Perrin his place. I acknowledge the fact that we are "co-leaders" but in reality, I'll be the one making the decisions. Like I've said before, he's a weak link. His training may be enough for me to overlook the fact that if it came down to it, he might not be able to kill someone in cold blood, but there's no way I'd let someone like that lead the Careers. Sure, I let him think that he could induct members into our alliance; I let him keep the little District 8 boy. But the training scores would show him that he made a poor decision trying to bring a weakling like that into our Pack; it would show him that only I could really make the decisions.

And then the boy's score came up: ten. The highest score of the night, only comparable to mine. Ten. A double digit score, not only from a tribute younger than myself, but from a tribute who lived in a District that makes textiles. The boy who wore _curtains_ for his chariot costume beat out all of the other Careers and, worst of all, proved me wrong. He knew that my speeches before everyone went into their sessions were mainly directed at him and now, with his score, he might as well be laughing in my face. He's shown me up. And that's something I won't allow people to do.

_Yes, he'll have to be very careful in the arena, _I think to myself, smiling slightly. Sure, I'll keep him around for a little while, use his skills to help whittle down the competition, but soon afterwards, he'd better watch his back. Because I'll be waiting for the right moment to strike.

Although first, I'm going to have to get through today. The sound of loud, heavy footsteps reminds me of what later is to come and soon Seel enters the room, yawning loudly and wearing only a robe, the shortness of which could probably serve to mentally scar most of the younger tributes.

"Ah, Meredith, you're awake," he says, his speech still understandable, though I know it won't be soon after he gets to the food. "Anyways, you know what today is, I hope. The schedule is that you and Perrin will be spending four hours with me and four hours with your mentors for preparation for the interviews. You will begin with me."

_Wonderful, _I think, sighing inwardly. This is going to be a _very _long day.

"- so after I eat we can . . ." Seal peters off, staring at the sandwich in my one hand and the knife in the other. I'd almost completely forgotten they were there. "Meredith, did you . . . use the same knife for the peanut butter and the jam?"

For the first time since I've gotten here, this simple-minded Capitol citizen has actually managed to confuse me. What on earth is he talking about? I look down at the jars of various spreads on the table, finally realising what I must have put on the bread. Seel is still gaping at me, as if what I've done is the absolute most atrocious thing I could have done.

I roll my eyes at him. "Are you actually serious? My goodness, you people really are idiots, aren't you?" Then I smile as an idea pops into my head. "It's not that bad. See for yourself." And before he can ask what I mean, I rear back and throw the knife, aiming directly for his head. He doesn't even have time to flinch as it lands solidly in the wall right above his head, slicing off a few of his remaining hairs. Seel looks up, terrified, just in time to get a splat of jelly right on his face as it drips from the knife. Then he turns his horrified visage towards me.

_Scratch that earlier thought, _I think to myself, still smiling as he stares at me in shock, red jam sliding down his face like blood. _Today might actually be fun._

* * *

><p><strong>Carlisle McAwny, District 9 Male<strong>

"Walk slower!"

"Chin up!"

"Don't swing your arms so much!"

"Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

The woman in front of me puts her hands on her hips. No wait, woman isn't the word to describe her. More like creature, something from another world. Her pale pink skin, long delicate nails and golden coloured hair all led me to believe that she wasn't real, just something I had conjured up in my imagination. That happens to me a lot; I'll be talking to someone I think is there, and then Damon will ask me who I'm chatting with and I'll realise that no one else can see the person. But it seems like everyone can see this odd, pink lady, so I guess she is real. I don't see how though; even my hallucinations seem more realistic than she looks.

"Carlisle!" She snaps her fingers and the sound ricochets through my mind, echoing off of every corner. "Listen to me!"

Her words register in my brain and I get the feeling that I should answer her, but I just . . . can't. I don't see why I should anyways. Damon doesn't like it when I talk to my hallucinations.

_She's not a hallucination though,_ I think to myself. _Remember? _But I don't. Other people could talk to her and see her, right? I'm not sure. It's been too long since I've seen anyone else besides this crazy lady. I don't know how long, but the large hand of the clock on the wall has gone around nearly four times. That should mean something to me, I know it should. Something about telling time. But once again I'm at a loss as to what it's supposed to mean. Another memory that slowly floated away from me until it was too far to be called back.

The woman throws up her hands and storms out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Good, I like it better this way. With her here, too many things were going on; she blurred the line between dreams and reality. But now, with her gone, I know that everything I see now will be of my own creation.

I wait for someone, or something, of my imagination to appear. Most of the time it's always something different; I've only been able to recreate my hallucinations a few times. But as the moments stretch out, I finally realise that nothing is going to come. I wish something would; it's lonely in this room.

Without thinking about it, my hand clasps around a pin attached to the collar of my shirt. I think it was handed to me during the goodbyes. For the longest time, I couldn't think what it was, but then it hit me last night; it's Damon's. Or at least, it was. Now it's mine.

The sense of loneliness returns with even more force as I think about my brother. I wish he were here with me; I can't do this on my own. He's been my guiding light for as long as I can remember and now, without him, I'm lost in the darkness of my own mind. But maybe I can bring him back.

As if in a trance, I begin to walk forwards towards the table where the pink lady had been sitting, taking notes on how I stood and my posture. I can see the pencil and sheaves of paper now; slowly, my hands reach out and curl around the items. There is a chair tucked underneath the table but I don't bother with it. Instead, I sink to the ground and press the grey lead to the white surface, slowly beginning to trace lines around the paper.

* * *

><p>"Carlisle?"<p>

The voice rouses me from my thoughts, and I look up to see a young woman entering the room. She seems familiar somehow, like I should know her. Wait . . . Imogen. I smile slightly to myself; at least I haven't forgotten everything.

"You see? He doesn't respond to anything! I can't work in these conditions!" The pink lady is back, but this time I know she's real because Imogen glares at her before turning back to me.

"Carlisle, I was just wondering . . ." she begins, but stops as she catches a glimpse of my drawing.

Two things have acted as my sort of anchors to the real world; Damon, and my sketches. Holding a pencil in my hand just seems so real, and when you draw something, it doesn't matter if it's something you hallucinated or not because people think it's pretty either way. This one though, this one is of something real.

Four pairs of eyes stare out from the page as four bodies pose in the drawing. Chance, wearing his trademark, lopsided grin; Reta, beaming up at me from the page; and of course, Damon. At a first glance, he might seem sad or serious to someone who just looked at the drawing, but I know better. My brother rarely smiles, but that doesn't mean he's never happy. He's gotten used to hiding his feelings from most people, but you can still see all of his joy in his eyes. And right now, his face captured in my sketch, he looks completely at peace with the world.

The fourth person might be hard to detect at first; I've drawn them almost as if they were a ghost, which I guess is fitting. But even though my mother's figure may seem spectral, as though she could disappear at any moment from the image, her eyes still stand out brightly from the paper. I know that to the others who look at her, she'll be in black and white, seeing as that's all the colours a pencil is capable of. But I can see every detail of her as clearly as if she were really standing right in front of me; long, flowing brown hair, ruby red lips and her eyes. Bright, hazel eyes that look slightly ember in the sunlight. Eyes that I inherited from her.

Imogen is still staring silently at my drawing and I begin to worry if I've done something wrong. When Damon gets angry, his face hardens and he remains quiet, just glaring at whoever offended him. Have I accidentally insulted Imogen with my picture?

"I'm sorry," I say automatically, looking up at her. She glances down at me, seemingly surprised. Is that not the proper way to ask forgiveness?

But my worries melt away a second later as she smiles. "You don't have to apologise Carlisle," she says to me. "It's beautiful."

"Oh," is all I can say. Beautiful. I've never heard anyone say that about my drawings before. It's nice to know she likes them though. Then maybe other people will like them too. All I need is the right moment to show everyone.

* * *

><p><strong>Emerald Marsh, District 11 Female<strong>

I sigh in exasperation and look hopefully at the clock. Thank goodness, only a half an hour left of interview prep. Not that I'm getting much done right now; the past three and a half hours have been spent arguing with District 11's only victor and mine and Dylian's mentor.

"Look, for the last time, I can't play intimidating!" I say, trying to get that through Jaros's thick head. "I'm thirteen! Look at me, do I look menacing to you?"

"It's the best angle and it'll get you the most sponsors," Jaros shoots back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Just because his interview angle was intimidating and he won the Games doesn't mean he should force every pair of tributes that come his way to try and follow in his footsteps. I've seen the tributes he's tried to make seem menacing and for the most part, it doesn't work. Dylian might be able to pull it off but I highly doubt that I could. "Remember, the girl from 11 last year used it and got to the final five!"

"Maybe it was the best angle for her," I say, trying not to sound frustrated or angry, "But times have changed! I'm not an eighteen year-old woman with martial arts training! I'm the mayor's daughter who may have gotten into a fight or two back in my home district but that doesn't mean I'm set for the Hunger Games!"

Jaros narrows his eyes. "Well fine then, if you think you know more than I do about getting sponsors, try it your own way then."

I sigh in relief, taking his words as a cue that the argument is finished. "Thank you."

"But in reality, you know next to nothing and acting like you do is just going to get you killed in the arena."

My whole body tenses and unconsciously my hands clench into fists. Part of my brain is telling me to just let him say what he wants; it's no use getting into another fight. But a bigger part is shouting that I can't just take what he says. He's my mentor, he's supposed to be helping me try and get far in the Games, not predict when I'm going to die. "I guess you're right," I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. "After all, the other past tributes have tried to be menacing and look how happy they ended up!"

Jaros freezes and immediately I know I've crossed the line. How could I even say that? Because I'm the spoiled mayor's daughter who's never had to take tessera in her life and therefore the Hunger Games have to effect on her. Yes, I have friends who aren't as privileged as I am, and both David and Lilly have known people who've gone into the Games. And I've felt sad, but not for the tributes who are losing their lives, just because I don't want to appear insensitive in front of my friends. In reality, the Games have never posed a threat to me at all before this year. But Jaros, he's had to watch countless kids go off to die in the arena, knowing that he can't do a thing about it. How can I sit here and talk about his job and the dead tributes so lightly? He's right, I don't know anything about the Games and so I don't have a right to talk about them like I'm an expert.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean that."

He just continues to stare at me for a long time, and just when I've decided that he hasn't accepted my apology and he's not going to speak, he does. "Have you ever played Daring Heights, Emerald?"

I frown, confused as to what he's getting at. Daring Heights is a game commonly played in our district. A group of kids pick a certain tree and try to climb it all the way to the top. As you get higher though, the branches get weaker and begin to break under you. The winner is that last person to fall out of the tree. I've always considered it a stupid game, but David and Lilly have dragged me into playing it when we were younger. "Yes."

"The winner is always the last person to fall," he says. "But that just makes them the person who has the longest fall that hurts the most in the end. So really, there is no winner." He stands and begins to make his way to the door, but stops before he exits and turns back to me. "Just remember that some games don't have winners." And then he's gone, leaving me to ponder what he said. _Some games don't have winners. _For a little while, it doesn't make any sense to me. All games have winners or they wouldn't really be games, now would they? But as I sit longer and think, I begin to realise what he means. Winning may seem great at the beginning, but it comes at a cost. So now I really only have one question that remains to be answered. In the Game I'm about to play, the cost of winning is high. Would I be able to deal with it?


	22. Double Takes

_**Everyone, I present to you the third last chapter before the Games! I had fun writing this one, I finally got to unleash one of the big plans I've had for these tributes ever since the reapings :)**_

_**So I hope you enjoy it!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

"Just let me take Gwen! I've got her dress all planned out and it's absolutely fabulous!"

"I was assigned to her. Besides, the interviews are about being remembered. I've got a costume that will guarantee it."

I sigh and blow a stray black strand of hair out of my face. Across the table from me, Rowan is picking his fingernails with one of the sharp knives that were present on the dining table. Throughout the first hour of our stylists' argument, we contented ourselves with shooting death glares back and forth at each other. But now we're going on two hours, and despite the hate the two of us feel for each other, there's really only so long you can keep showing open hostilities before it becomes slightly tedious.

"I've been a stylist much longer than you have and she will wear my costume!" Moneeka, one of our two stylists, shouts, her pink curls trembling with rage.

"Yes but there's a reason I've managed to climb this high on the career ladder so fast, whereas you took even longer than most," Heggus says, his face as always devoid of expression. It didn't take me long to figure out that the District 7 stylists are polar opposites; on one hand you have Moneeka, all pink lace and frills and everything else that just makes me want to throw up. And then there's Heggus, skin so pale it almost look white, black, greasy hair that hangs to his waist while the same shade of makeup colours his lips and eyes. Their differing personalities often clash, leaving Rowan and I to suffer in boredom while they argue about the most trivial things. The two of us would certainly have intervened by now with some sort of sarcastic remark or witty insults, had our escort not threatened to sprinkle poison in the food she sends to us in the arena. I thought the Capitol people were all idiots, but Tammi seems to have a vicious streak to her.

However even her patience seems tried and at that point she interrupts our two fighting stylists. "Please, can we just get on with this? You were supposed to start the preparation for the interviews hours ago and at this rate neither tribute will be ready in time."

"So who's in charge of which child?" Moneeka asks huffily.

Tammi sighs. "Look, I'm sorry, but Gwen was assigned to Heggus first. Unless you two are willing to compromise like you did with the chariot rides, she'll be going with him."

I remember back to our first night in the Capitol, where we sat through a similar argument. Eventually though, they managed to compromise. However, it seems neither is willing to tonight. Apparently the interviews are going to be done differently this time; whereas the tributes are normally dressed up again in something that represents their district, this time they'll be wearing something more with the theme of the Games. I heard from Tammi that the Gamemakers weren't very happy with the change, but they had no choice but to go along with it when all of the stylists threatened to resign unless they had their way. I guess they all really wanted to use this theme for the interviews. But I'm fine with that; it'll give me an advantage in the arena if I know a bit of what the Gamemakers are planning. Of course, everyone else will be getting this advantage as well, but you can't have it all.

And I'll need all the advantages I can get in the arena. I'd never admit it to anyone, but there is a small part of me that's a bit, well, _apprehensive_ about the beginning of the Games. I mean, this time tomorrow I'll be in the arena; any tribute would have a right to be nervous. But I've got more to worry about then some of them; I've never really had to go without food, let alone eat animals to survive and, most of all, I don't have any allies to watch my back. I keep telling myself that I don't need them, especially after I saw what scores my potential allies got. A five and a two. Combined, they just manage to meet my score. But the small part of me, the one apprehensive about the Games, has been wondering ever since that second training day if I should have accepted Lore's invitation.

"Fine!" A high-pitched shriek interrupts my thought as Moneeka storms away from the dining table. "I'll take Rowan!"

This seems to annoy my district partner, and I smirk at him, though truthfully I don't know if I've gotten the better end of the deal. I know the reason Moneeka wanted me so bad; she's had to design for male tributes for years, she'd love just once to have a tribute she could put in some sort of abhorrent pink dress. I'd never agree to that, but when the alternative is Heggus, a stylist new to the Games, I'm not sure if I'd prefer him. If his clothes are anything to go by, I'll be wearing something black and dreary-looking.

I sigh and stand up, reluctantly following Heggus to the dressing room. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Tammi glare daggers at Rowan, who hasn't moved. I roll my eyes; really, does he think he's impressing anyone by standing up to our escort, of all people? It just makes him look idiotic not menacing in any way. _Then again, _a small voice says in my mind, _you already know he can be pretty intimidating. Remember that day in training? And he's got the Careers. You've got no one._

_Shut up! _I think furiously. I can't have these doubts hanging around my mind when I go into the arena. _Just focus on the task at hand, _I instruct myself, and without further ado head into the dressing room, ready for whatever god-awful costume my stylist has prepared for me.

* * *

><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

"What do you think?"

I gape at my stylist, not believing that what she holds in her hands is real. Can a dress actually be that gaudy and hideous? "You want my honest opinion?"

She shakes her head excitedly, expecting me to sing her praises. You'd think after knowing me for seven days she'd have learned by now.

"Tell me, do they make you Capitol people with brains? Or are they all cut out of you when you're born? That must be the case, because I have a hard time believing that thing wasn't made by a five year-old finger painter." I roll my eyes. "And I thought there was nothing worse than the chariot costumes. Look, do me a favour next time and let me know when you're going to present me something you designed. That way I can shield my eyes so they won't have to suffer."

It's my stylist's turn to stare at me, open-mouthed. I just keep the smirk on my face, never letting my real thoughts show. _But these are my real thoughts, _I tell myself. That dress really is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, and my stylist is idiotic. Sure, other tributes might have let her down more gently, or might have even loved the dress she's created, since most of them are so poor they could barely afford enough fabric to cover themselves. But I'm not most tributes. There's a reason no one volunteered when I was reaped, and if she hasn't realised what that reason is by now she's even stupider than I thought.

I grit my teeth at the memory of the reaping ceremony, and quickly clear my head of the image. No, of course I'm not bothered by it. Why would it hurt me to see that out of our entire district, the district that holds the record for most volunteers, no one wanted to go into the Games for me because they wanted the pleasure of watching me die? The mere thought is just ridiculous.

I'm drawn from my reverie by the sound of a door slamming shut; it seems that my stylist has left me in a fit of sobs. The prep team remains, looking between me and the exit of the room. I give them the biggest sneer I can muster and slowly they leave as well, muttering about going off to comfort their boss. Yeah right. The cowards are just trying to get away from me.

I gaze into the mirror, now visible thanks to the lack of people present in the room, and take a good, long look at myself. My stylist had insisted on showing me my dress first, and as a result I don't even bear the markings and make-up that my prep team would have left on my face. And for the first time since arriving in the Capitol, I look like myself. No fancy costume or abhorrent make-up; no other people pretending to be here to support me, be my "teammates." I'm just me; normal face, normal smirk and alone. Just like always.

I almost laugh as I remember the day of the reapings and how similar that morning was to now. Just myself, looking in the mirror, comparing myself to my sister until my rude and obnoxious brother decided to barge in on me. I catch myself in the middle of a sigh; am I really wishing that Rush was with me right now? _Yes, yes I am_, I think rebelliously. Say what you want about me, that I'm a witch, I'm cold-hearted, I'm evil, but I do, in some strange way, love my brother. Most of the time I wouldn't even admit to that; I'd only go so far to say I tolerate him. But right now, with the Games looming over me, I figure I can say that I love someone, just once. After all, no one is here to listen anyways.

Yep, Rush and Pascal, the two people/animals I can actually say I like. _And Pierce? _part of me asks. _What about him? _What about him, my so-called "friend" who puts up with my existence? Why does he hang around me anyways? It's not like he's poor enough to try and suck up to me for food or other necessary supplies; everyone in the district knows I'd be the last person to go to for help. My golden rules in life: I'm never wrong and help is for losers. Although I am about to go into the Hunger Games. Obviously I'm going to come out alive, but still, it wouldn't hurt to admit maybe, just this once and only to myself, that Pierce is my friend and maybe the two of us stick together so that we don't have to feel so alone.

_Alright, sappy family thoughts time is over Rhine, _I think, reverting back to my usual snarky, sarcastic self. _Seriously, you're turning into Lura more and more each day. _Yes, my twin sister, victor of the 35th annual Hunger Games. What was she thinking about the night before she went into the arena? _Probably something idiotic. _I smirk; while my sister was probably worrying and thinking about her family and friends, while I, on the other hand, will only be thinking of my victory.

The thought of my sister reminds me of the interview preparation yesterday, when she was attempting to help me with an angle that would make the Capitol audience like me. _Like _me, can you imagine? As soon as Lura and had uttered the words I'd snorted in derision.

"_Oh come on Rhine," my sister says tiredly, trying not to let her exasperation show. "Don't you want sponsors to help you in the arena? Wait, I know," she adds, cutting me off before I can answer. "Help is for losers."_

"_Exactly," I say. "And I don't plan on losing this Game."_

_Lura's eyes fill with worry at that. "Of course, I don't want you to either! But don't you think that anything that might keep you alive is a good thing?"_

"_So you're saying that I should be all nice and pitiable like you?" I say, my voice suddenly filling with venom. I put on a high, falsetto voice and continue. "Oh, my name's Lura Carson, and I just want to help fill the world with flowers and sparkles! Don't I just make you want to throw-up rainbows?"_

_She flinches visibly, but I don't care. She should be able to handle me by now; we've lived together for over seventeen years. "I just want you to come home," she whispers quietly._

_Of course that would be her response. Not a biting insult or evil comeback, just praying that I live in the arena. Then again, what should I expect from my oh-so-perfect sister? I repeat my earlier thought to myself; I've lived with her for over seventeen years as well, I should be able to handle her personality as she handles mine. But the thought doesn't stop me from spitting out, "I'm sure you do, just like the rest of our family does. None of you fool me; I'm sure you'll all have a party when I'm gone." Without thinking I reach up and rip off my district token, the necklace Lura wore in her Games. I don't even know why I accepted it from her in the first place. But now I don't hesitate to throw it on the floor at her feet and storm out of the room, though not before I catch one last glimpse of her face, and the emotions I see there confuse me slightly, but I'm too angry to really care right now._

_Quite an eventful day, _I muse as the memory comes to an end. And now that I've had some time to cool off, I return to pondering my last glimpse of Lura. Of course, there was the typical hurt that was usually present in any of my victims' faces, as well as some fear for my fate in the arena. But there was something else in the way her eyes flickered from me to the necklace at her feet. Like someone had turned on a lamp, a light had appeared in her eyes. Almost as if she had an idea or some sort of plan. And the way she avoided my gaze both at dinner that night and breakfast this morning makes me even more suspicious. At first I'd just automatically assumed that she was still hurt about my comments, but now I'm not so sure. What could she be-?

_Tock. Tock. Tock._

I'm rudely interrupted from my thoughts as a loud knocking sound can be heard from somewhere outside the room. Probably my idiotic district partner. I roll my eyes; that does seem to be the exact kind of immature thing Code might do to annoy me. Walking over to the door opposite the one my prep team and stylist exited, I pound on it and shout, "Knock it off!"

There's silence for a moment. Then-

_Tock. Tock. Tock._

I throw up my hands and wrench the door open, expecting to come face to face with Code, but no one's present in the hallway. Narrowing my eyes, I take a few steps away from my dressing room towards what I believe is the source of the knocking, but still I can't see anyone. Farther and farther I go down the hall until I'm standing right outside another door. The sound is much louder now and I have no doubt that whoever is making that irritating noise is right inside. I grab the door and fling it open, storming inside and getting ready to confront the culprit.

Its pitch dark inside and I'm caught off-guard as someone rushes past me, knocking me off-balance. I swear and whirl around, but I was too slow and whoever it is slams the door before my eyes can adjust to the gloom. Cursing myself for falling for one of the oldest tricks in the book, I feel my way back over to the door and turn the knob. Or rather, try to. Whoever escaped seems to have locked the door behind them.

"_Code,"_ I whisper venomously, automatically jumping to the conclusion. Who else would it have been? In my anger I kick the door, hoping for it to cave in, but the Capitol builds things too well for that. I can insult the people and the outfits all I want; when it comes to constructing buildings, they know what they're doing. However, I kick it again experimentally and sense the slightest give in the hard, wooden panels. Under the cover of darkness, I smile. This place (which I assume is some sort of giant supply closet) may be built to withstand hits from weaker tributes, but I am a trained Career. I'll be out of here in no time.

Well, maybe not "no time" exactly. I'd say it took me about an hour and a half to finally bust through the door, but I'm not exactly sure. Anyways, I couldn't care less at the moment; angrily, I storm back to my dressing room, ready to take my fury out on my prep team, my stylist, anyone I can find. But especially Code. When I find him, he'll wish he'd never volunteered for these Games. Him and his crazy, stupid grandmother . . .

I feel like strangling someone when I find that the door to my dressing room is also locked. Not bothering to wonder why my stylist would do something like that, I swear that if I meet anymore locked doors tonight, I will kill someone before even waiting to get in the arena. Luckily this one isn't as well-built as the other, or maybe I've just got more anger working for me, but in any case the look breaks after two quick kicks and the door swings inwards. I burst into the room, opening my mouth to shout at everyone.

Empty. There's absolutely no one here. I cross to the other doorway and look for my wayward stylist, but the hallway is completely empty. I look around the room again and realise that my dress is gone, and the make-up looks like it's been used. For once, I'm at a loss for words. Where is everybody?

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

My costume is pretty simple, for someone from District 2. My stylist said that they weren't supposed to represent the districts this time around though; I think he mentioned something about fairytales.

"It's from one of my favourite stories," he'd said. "_The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs." _Apparently it was supposedly about some poor boy who'd been prophesised to marry the king's daughter. The king had tried all sorts of ways of getting rid of the boy, but in the end fate had its way. I smiled slightly at that part; I think my grandmother would approve of the costume.

There's a rustling behind me and Rhine enters the small room where the two of us are supposed to be waiting to go on stage for the interviews. Her prep team is still fawning over her and adding some last minute touches to her costume and make-up and, surprisingly, she doesn't object. I don't really think she needs any touch-ups though; the dress is beautiful, with red hearts entwining all the way up it over white fabric. "You look really nice," I say, before I can stop myself. She looks at me and immediately I slap myself mentally. _Idiot, what'd you do that for? _I close my eyes and wait for the insults to start pouring in about how soft I am and how ridiculous I look.

"Thanks! You look great too."

I open my eyes to see her standing before me, giving me a warm smile. "Quickly, you're going on now!" Our escort says, shooing us onto the stage. My district partner gives me a nervous, yet reassuring grin and takes to the stage, but I stand still, unable to move, just staring after her. And all I can wonder is who the heck this girl is and what have they done with Rhine Carson?


	23. Stylists Lose Their Subtlety

_**We're here guys! The penultimate chapter! The second to last one before the Games start! I'm pretty much dying from excitement over here :)**_

_**This is pretty much your last chance to vote on the bloodbath poll, so if you haven't done so yet than go do it immediately! Pretty soon I'll have to choose who is going to die . . . it's going to be pretty hard. But for now, enjoy the chapter!**_

_**Oh, and I sort of introduced everyone's fairytale character in this chapter, but don't worry if you can't guess who they are yet. There'll be more time to explain them in the Games since some are sort of obscure and some are a real stretch. I had a very hard time figuring out some characters for these guys, it took me like 6 straight hours of googling :)**_

_** But I'd love to hear some of your guesses, if you'd like to include them in a review!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Bree Hudson, District 5 Female<strong>

The lights nearly blind me as I walk onto the stage and I don't know how some of the tributes manage to keep their balance in the precarious shoes their stylists had given them. Yesterday when I'd had interview training with Blandi, she'd tried getting me to walk in high heels, a feat I'd never attempted in my entire life. I guess word got back to Delight about my failure with the shoes since the ones I currently wear now are appropriately named _flats._ Maybe my stylist isn't all bad.

Actually, even though I hate the Capitol and everything they stand for, I still couldn't hide my awe at seeing the outfit Delight had created for me. It's relatively simple, for an interview costume, but the delicate pink fabric is the softest I've seen, and the small purple threads that intertwine in a sort of braided pattern down the dress shimmer in the light. Braids seemed to be the theme Delight was going with for this outfit; my own hair has been thoroughly brushed, transferring it from a tangled mess to something befitting a princess. I don't know how, but she added some sort of extensions to my hair, making it look longer than it actually is, so that instead of brushing about my mid-back like it normally would, were my hair pulled into a braid, it now dangles about an inch off of the ground. I don't know who I'm supposed to be like, Delight mentioned something about a fairytale and a girl with a really long name; I don't really have time to bother with that sort of nonsense. But I do like the dress.

I take my seat between Lore and the boy from District 4 (Perrin, I think), and wait for the interviews to begin. The crowd takes a while to calm down as they're much more excited than usual; my guess is that the interesting take on the interview outfits is what's gotten them all worked up. A few of the tributes are gazing around too, unable to contain their awe at some of the costumes. I tell myself to just sit and stare straight ahead, proving to the audience that I'm a level-headed contender who won't be distracted by sparkly fabrics or fancy hats, but my curiosity is hard to contain. Unfortunately, I can't get a good view of anyone right now except Perrin, who wears a simple yet handsome white shirt and blue pants, with a red belt adding a splash of colour to the outfit. And then there's Lore on my other side, and once I get a good look at him I have to raise my hand to my lips to stifle a laugh bubbling up inside of me.

He doesn't miss my gesture. "I know," he groans, and sinks lower in his chair. "Don't say anything."

"Your shirt looks nice though," I say, trying to brighten his mood. It _is_ pretty neat; one side is made of some sort of straw-like material that slowly turns into golden thread as it reaches the other side of his shirt. "Definitely interesting."

"Sure, if you can get past these stupid ears," he says, trying and failing to tug off one of the prosthetics his stylist made him wear to give his ears a pointed look. "And they itch something terrible."

"What are you supposed to be?"

He shrugs. "I lost interest after the first two syllables. It was a _long_ name. You?"

"Same here. Started with an 'r,' I think."

Our conversation is forced to an end as Caesar Flickerman bounces onto the stage and the Capitol oohs and ahhs at his new hair colour, while the 24 of us stare at him in a mixture of shock, surprise, and barely suppressed laughter. I knew from past Games that he always changed his hair each year for the interviews, but that doesn't prepare me for seeing him live with this new colour. Or rather, _colours_.

"It looks like a unicorn threw up on his head," Lore mutters and I have to quickly turn my laugh into a cough to hide it. It's true though. Because this year, Caesar seems to have decided to dye his hair in all colours of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet – all streaked across his hair beginning at the front of his head and ending at the back. Maybe the Capitol finds it attractive (with their wacky styles I don't doubt it) but it just looks positively horrendous to me. And, by the looks on most of their faces, the other tributes are thinking along the same lines.

He announces the first interviewee, Cordelia Schylla, who wears a flowing red cape with a lacy hood balancing delicately over her head, and Lore and I lapse into comfortable silence as the interview begins. I do like the relationship we've established since the last day of training; really, he's as close as I've ever gotten to having a friend, but we haven't forgotten the fact that we will be going into the arena together. Though we've decided that we will try never to cross paths and if we do, well, we'll deal with that when it happens. But if it does, I don't think either of us would try to kill one another. It's the best relationship two tributes can have going into the Games, unless you delude yourself into thinking that somehow you can both make it out alive. I've seen tributes like that before, who've fallen in love in the arena only to have one or both of them brutally murdered and in all honesty, it doesn't make sense to me. Why just make it harder on yourself? I can barely understand how people can make alliances knowing their friend has to die, but having a romance in the arena? It's just unbelievable. Then again, after experiencing firsthand what my father's death did to my mother, I don't think I have the most valuable opinion. My life is just fine without having some sort of boyfriend in it; all I need is my brother.

What must Webb be thinking now as he watches me sitting onstage, ready to do my interview? Is he lonely, scared for me, hurt? I should never have left him alone with our mother. Although I guess I didn't really have much of a choice. Unlike some of these tributes, who've volunteered to be here. But maybe they all have good reasons why.

"Well, my friends and I have a plan, see? I'll win this Game, then Caspian and then Bree. We'll go down in Hunger Games history!"

Then again, maybe not.

I sigh and relax slightly in my chair, trying to tune out Cordelia's bubbly voice as she continues chatting about life in her home district and how she was so excited to volunteer. Listening will only make me angry, angry at all of the Careers who would sacrifice life so easily for a chance at fame. _Just seven more to go,_ I think as Cordelia's buzzer rings. _Then mine. And then fifteen more after that._

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

Really, could these interviews be any more tedious? I lean back in my chair and give a dramatic sigh. Honestly, do these tributes have absolutely nothing interesting to talk about or what? I shift the plastic axe I was given by my stylist around as I try to make myself comfortable. Ugh, even the thought of Moneeka makes me want to puke. She should have done Gwen; could have put her in some sort of disgusting pink princess gown or whatever. Heggus seems much more my style anyways.

Of course, I have to admit, I approve of his choice of costume for Gwen. Not the blue bodice or the yellow skirt; no, the part _I _like is the gaping, bloody hole where her heart should be. He mentioned something about how the character I'm dressed as (a huntsman of sorts) was supposed to cut out Gwen's character's heart in the fairytale but never did. Well, I can assure him that I _won't _be making the same mistake.

I give her a quick smirk as her name is called, and she meets it with her steely glare before stalking over to Caesar. He makes a few costumes about her "interesting" costume for one so young, and she responds drily that her stylist has unusual tastes, which gets the audience laughing.

I don't pay attention to most of the interview – it's as dull as the rest of them and more laughable then most – but soon her buzzer rings and it's my turn. _Should be fun, _I think, standing and heading to the stage as Gwen brushes swiftly past me. I'm sure she's expecting me to play intimidating and menacing, just like everyone else is; after all, I've been nothing else during my stay at the Capitol. But it's just so . . . _overdone_. My ally, Meredith already has that taken care of, though I'm sure I could have done it much better than her. I was also expecting the District 2 girl to try and pull it off too, but even I was surprised when she was nothing but smiles and cheeriness during her interview. It certainly was something none of us were expecting.

Similar reactions are beginning to show on the other tributes' faces as I reach Caesar and begin to play, well, likable. Don't get me wrong; I'd dearly love to scar Caesar and the rest of the audience emotionally with my words, but that won't win me any points in the arena. And besides, despite how odd it may seem, I do have a certain passion for acting.

"So Rowan," Caesar says, after the audience's laughter calms down. "Maybe this is just me, but I seem to sense a certain . . . well, there's definitely something going on between you and your district partner! Care to tell us what that's all about?"

"Well Caesar," I say, pausing for a second and debating where to go with this. I could keep up my façade, but I can tell my time is nearing its end. Might as well toy with their minds a little. After all, this is for a game. Let's make it fun – at least, for me. "Her costumes actually a very accurate description of how we feel about each other."

The audience murmurs amongst each other, trying to figure out what I mean, and I let them attempt to figure it out before continuing. "Yes, you see, Gwen's heart is missing because ultimately, I've stolen it."

Caesar wolf-whistles and the audience laughs, chattering and cheering at my statement. I smile as the cameras find Gwen's face, red with fury and embarrassment. "Well, I don't think anyone was expecting that," Caesar says when the audience quietens slightly.

"Actually, can you keep a secret?" I ask quietly and the audience laughs slightly at that. Keep a secret from who? The whole country is watching. But Caesar goes along with it, leaning closer to me as I bend my head down and whisper into the microphone, making sure my voice can still be heard by everyone. "I haven't actually stolen it yet."

Caesar makes a surprised face at the audience, but I don't give them time to talk about my latest statement. "At least, not yet," I continue louder. "But don't worry everyone. When I'm in the arena painting the ground with her blood, I'll make sure to cut out the heart and keep it. As a trophy of sorts."

It's pretty amusing how deadly silent the place becomes at that. Every single person watching the interviews abruptly stops talking as they let my words sink in, the true meaning being revealed. Even Caesar is at a loss for words, and at the sound of the buzzer he just continues staring at me as I give the audience a cheery wave and make my way back to my seat. It's still unnaturally silent as the District 8 girl walks up to the stage, before Caesar abruptly tries to keep the interviews moving along, though it's pretty obvious he's still shaken by my words. Everyone is, especially my furious district partner, who seems to be actually literally shaking with rage at the moment. Rage . . . and fear. Just as I planned.

"Enjoying the event?" I whisper to her, noticing that one or two cameras are still pointed towards us.

Her response, needless to say, is less than polite. "Language Gwen, language," I say, and she gives me a glare that might even make Meredith quake in the obscenely tall high heels she currently wears, but of course, I don't even flinch. Honestly, I don't see why she's so upset. We're here to play a game; she should relax, have some fun. After all, I'm having the time of my life.

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini, District 9 Female<strong>

The District 8 boy's interview comes to an end, and I smooth the blue dress my stylist made me before standing and heading to the stage, aware that all eyes are on me. But I don't let that bother me; _the interview is going to go fine,_ I tell myself. Gracefully, I slide into the chair positioned across from Cesar and he takes that as his cue to begin the interview.

"Hello Imogen! Welcome to the stage! I hope you're enjoying tonight!"

"Of course," I lie smoothly. Hopefully it'll be as easy to keep up throughout the rest of the interview.

"You look beautiful tonight."

"I'll have to pass the praise onto my stylist."

"So modest," Caesar says, looking at the audience and they cheer in agreement. "But I don't think your stylist can take all the credit!"

The audience laughs and a few of the men repeat Caesar's earlier actions and wolf-whistle. I can feel myself blushing, but I just keep telling myself that if this gets me sponsors, then I should just go along with it. After all, it might help to ultimately bring me home alive. I just have to stop trying to imagine what Noah is thinking while watching this. "Do you have any idea who you're dressed as?" Caesar asks curiously when the audience quietens.

"I'm sorry, but I really don't," I say honestly. Normally I can remember almost anything, but the detail just seemed so trivial at the time that it slipped my mind. "Sleepy something?"

Everyone laughs again and Caesar gently corrects me. "I think you mean Sleeping Beauty."

"Oh," I say, having absolutely no idea who he's talking about.

"Actually, she's from one of my favourite stories! Although the original tale was a bit gruesome."

"Really?" I try to sound interested. I highly doubt that it could possibly be more gruesome than the idea of sending innocent children into an arena to fight to the death, but if it gets the attention off me than I'll go along with it. "How so?"

"Well, I'm not entirely sure if it's appropriate to discuss here," Caesar says, earning a few laughs from audience members with some knowledge of what he's talking about. "After all, we'd like to keep these events for the whole family."

"Of course." Sure, death is fine to see, but whatever the heck this fairy tale contains isn't? These Capitol people really should get their heads examined.

"Let's just say that the prince found the princess asleep and, well, when she awoke she found that the stork had dropped off two wonderful new babies!" Caesar says quickly. "Now, Imogen, I was going to . . ."

But I've tuned him out at this point; my mind is still focusing on what he just said. At first I'm slightly confused; what could he possibly mean? But then what he was hinting at hits me and a wave of emotions overwhelms me. A bit of embarrassment, of course, but mostly anger, solely directed at my stylist, Reeves. How could he have possibly-?

No, I don't even want to think about how he found out, though my brain is already churning out solutions. Most likely, one of the victors knew; after all, my father runs one of the most prominent weapon companies in the district. But still, the fact that they told Reeves and the fact that he decided to turn that into a gimmick just so he could put me in a certain costume almost causes me to snap. I want to scream, I want to shout and most of all I want to find my stylist and demand to know what sorry excuse he has for doing this.

"Imogen? Are you alright?"

I shake myself out of my enraged thoughts and try to come up with a plausible excuse. "I'm sorry," I say, trying my best to sound truly apologetic, when I'm feeling exactly the opposite. "I had a sleeping disorder as a child; sometimes it still causes me fatigue. I just need to rest." Not entirely a lie; I did have problems sleeping, though it rarely troubles me now. Caesar seems to believe it however, and he makes a sympathetic face.

"Of course, we all understand. After all, we want you well-rested for tomorrow! We'll be cheering you on, Imogen." I nod, and the buzzer goes off, though I suspect someone set it off manually to spare me having to spend another two minutes with the audience; like Caesar said, they want me ready for the Games. At this moment though, I couldn't care less why they did it. I just need to get away from these people and their Games and their horrible fairytales and costume ideas.

I just wish I could go home.

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

The interviews are finishing up, the tributes have returned to the Training Center and heading back up to their respective floors while I'm _still _in shock. For her entire interview, Rhine couldn't have been more joyful, kind or . . . less Rhine-like. I give her a sideways glance as we head for the elevators. Still _looks_ like Rhine; that is, Rhine without her usual smirk.

"Wait!" she says suddenly, grabbing my arm and stopping me in my tracks.

"What?" I ask, my tone defensive in case she's going to go back to her usual self.

"Let's just . . . wait down here."

"Why?" I ask suspiciously. "Don't you want to go back to our floor?"

She can't hide the look in her eyes; she's nervous, guilty and also the tiniest bit afraid. What is she expecting to find when we get upstairs? "Can we just sit around and talk?" she asks, gesturing to the benches nearby. "I mean, we might as well let everyone else go up first."

"Sure." I can't believe I just agreed to that. This is the girl who's been insulting me nonstop ever since the reapings. But even still, I allow her to lead me to the bench and sit with her.

"So, what'd you think of the interviews?" she asks, trying to make conversation.

"Weird costumes," I say, just as the pair from District 12 enter, heading for the elevators. "I mean, is she a duck?"

"I thought it might have been a swan," Rhine says thoughtfully. "But it sort of changes depending on how you look at her."

"So that would make the boy . . ."

"A wolf?" she guesses. "Bear? To be honest I'm not entirely sure."

"Neither am I," I say. "Whatever he is, it's certainly some sort of beast. But they were the only two animals, right?"

"I think so," she says slowly.

"Still, doesn't mean they weren't just as crazy-looking," I say. "The boy from Nine looked pretty, well, nuts. And he had that big top hat thing."

"His partner was beautiful though," Rhine says.

"True," I say. I have to admit, she did catch my eye at the ceremony. But I've heard that she's allied herself with Achilles, which means that the only times I'll ever see her again, we'll probably both be trying to kill each other. "What was with his costume anyhow?" I think out loud, earning myself a curious glance from Rhine. "Achilles's, I mean. I thought these things were supposed to be themed like fairytales. His looked more Greek to me."

Rhine shrugs. "Maybe there were some sort of famous Greek fairytales? I don't know, I'm not the expert on stories," she says apologetically.

"And then there were our allies," I say, trying to remember all the costumes. "Cordelia with that red hood, Meredith looking like a freaky evil queen or something, Perrin wearing the plain white shirt-"

"I think I heard his stylist say that he was supposed to be a prince," Rhine adds. I look at her curiously.

"When were you talking to his stylist?"

She blushes, and her eyes dart away from mine. "Um, well, I overheard him telling Meredith," she says quickly, but I know she's lying. I mean, I pride myself on being pretty good at detecting when others are feeling guilty about something, but any idiot could tell she isn't speaking the truth. "Anyways, there was also Rowan and Janaff's costume, right?" she continues, trying to draw the attention away from herself. "Some sort of huntsman and then a flute player? Something like that."

"Right," I say, still eying her suspiciously. "I think Rowan's was supposed to be from the same thing as his district partner. She had the really creepy costume with the cut out heart."

"Janaff's partner's was pretty intimidating too. Not on the same level, but she looked like a warrior."

"Certainly more daunting than the District 3 girl's outfit," I think, remembering the little fourteen year-old who went right after me. "Her costume was rags."

"Didn't you notice when it caught the light though? The fabric shimmered and it looked almost like she was wearing a ball gown."

"Really?" I guess I hadn't noticed that. Leave it to a girl to pick out the details on everyone's costumes. Though I never thought that girl would be Rhine. I look over at her and notice her smiling. "What?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing," she says quickly. I continue staring at her and she gives in. "I was just thinking about her partner's outfit."

I grin too. "With the pointy ears?"

She nods and suddenly we're both laughing at the memory. She tries to stop and manages to choke out, "We shouldn't make fun. The rest of his costume wasn't that bad."

True, his green outfit was alright, thought the hat with the red feather in it was a bit weird. "Not as bad as the District 5 boy," I say, chuckling and she starts giggling again too, remembering the tribute whose ears were even more pointed than the male from District 3.

"His partner was nice though," she says once the laughter died down. "Another princess by the look of it."

"Seemed to be a common theme," I say.

"Not necessarily. The girls from 6, 10 and 11 weren't."

"True," I say, remembering the three girls. Some sort of archer from 6, a girl who looked like she herded birds from 10 and a more young costume with a blue dress and a white apron for the one from 11. "Their partners weren't royalty either, from the look of it. The boy from 6 and 10 actually looked kind of similar."

"Except the one from 6 had a bird on his shirt," Rhine says. "And did you notice the interesting design on the boy from 10's costume? It looked like, well . . . bread crumbs."

I burst out laughing and she frowns disapprovingly, though I can see a smile in her eyes. "It did," she says earnestly, and I snort again.

"So which would you prefer? Bread crumbs or that tiny red hat the guy from 11 had to wear?"

She grins and shakes her head. "I don't think I can choose."

"It is a pretty tough choice, I think-"

"There you two are!"

Our escort's loud voice interrupts our conversation and we turn to see him striding into the building. "Why aren't you upstairs yet?" he shouts. "Lights out time was half an hour ago! Move it!"

He escorts us into the elevator and jabs the 2 button. I glance over at Rhine; she always has something snarky to say to him. But she's looks . . . apologetic. Like she's sorry and sad that he had to yell at us. But I can also see the bit of fear that was present in her eyes earlier, and it grows as the elevator ascends quickly towards our floor. Suddenly the doors open and our escort shoos us out, following close behind the two of us to make sure we go to our rooms and stay there.

"Are you alright?" I whisper to Rhine.

She looks at me and opens her mouth to respond when a loud, terribly familiar shout reaches our ears. "I don't believe you!"

I turn to see who the person is and come face to face with Rhine, glaring daggers with her hands on her hips. But no . . . Rhine's beside me, blushing and not meeting the eyes of the new person. My head jolts back and forth as I try to understand what's happening. And then it hits me.

"Bit slow, aren't you, Code?" Rhine says scathingly. My dawning realisation must have shown on my face.

Our escort, however, seems to still be out of the loop. "What is going on here?" he says. "I demand to know!"

"Why don't you ask Little Miss Victor?" Rhine says, smirking at her double, which I've now realised must be her twin, Lura. "She planned this out."

Lura blushes as our escorts glare falls onto her. "I just wanted to help," she tries to say. "Rhine just . . . wouldn't have done very well at the interviews."

Her sister snorts. "I would have done better than you. What, did you go out there and tell them how happy you were to be here and how you thought each tribute was just _wonderful?_ My gosh, you really are stupid, aren't you?"

I expected this to be a one-sided argument, since Lura never rises to her sister's bait and is too nice to fight anyways, so I'm surprised when she says, "I may be stupid, but in case you didn't notice, that tactic seemed to work, didn't it? Because if you haven't noticed, Rhine, I'm still_ here_."

For the first time, an expression of surprise crosses Rhine's face; I take it she didn't expect her sister to stand up to her. But the emotion is quickly wiped from her face, replaced by her usual smirk. "Yes you are still here. And pray tell, what horrible thing did we do to deserve that?"

I stare in shock at my district partner. I can't believe she just said that. Sure, I've put up with her for at least a week; I really shouldn't be surprised as to what comes out of her mouth. But saying that to her _sister?_ That's pretty cold. I mean, I wouldn't even say that to Awny, let alone my siblings, if I had any.

I glance at Lura, who's trembling beside me, but it seems to be more from rage than hurt. I guess after all those years of putting up with her sister, she's finally had it. "Fine," she says quietly. "I guess I should leave then, shouldn't I? Make the world a better place." And with that, she walks to her room and slams the door shut. Rhine watches her go, her smirk still present but I feel like it's more fake this time; she's using it to hide something. Then she just whirls around and storms into her own room, slamming to door shut just as loudly as her sister did.

"Well," our escort says slowly, but he can't seem to think of anything else to say after that. So the two of us just stare down the hallway at the two doors behind which two identical girls are seething, alike in looks but completely opposite in personality. Though I'm guessing that right now, the sisters are feeling more similar to each other than they ever have in their lives.


	24. Their Last Thoughts

_**This is it! Absolute last chapter before the Games begin! That also means that this is your absolute last chance to vote on teh bloodbath poll! I won't keep you any longer, enjoy the last chapter before the most magical Games you've ever seen begin!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Cordelia Schylla, District 1 Female<strong>

I lay my interview outfit out carefully onto the dresser, making sure not to crease it or anything; my stylist _hates _that. Then I slip into less pretty, but more comfortable pajamas and hop into bed.

However, it soon becomes apparent to me that sleep is not going to come easily. I mean, I'll be heading into the arena tomorrow. In less than 12 hours, the Games will have begun. I'm not scared exactly. I mean, I've got skilled allies, I'm pretty darn good myself, and District 1 _always _has sponsors. No, the feeling is more like one of nervousness, like there are thousands of butterflies flittering around my stomach and no matter how hard I try they won't go away. It's a bit like the nerves I had for the interviews, but different.

For the first time in my life, I'll be completely on my own. Yes, I have allies, but only one of us can come home. People might think I'm not the brightest, but I do understand that. And I know that none of the Careers are planning on dying in the arena. Really, it's just all one big competition. No alliance lasts. The arena isn't a place to make friends.

I bite my lip, wishing that Caspian and Bree were here with me. My true friends. But I guess having them here wouldn't exactly be a good thing, now would it? Then we'd end up having to fight with each other.

_But you can be together in spirit, _I think, withdrawing my arm from underneath the covers and smiling at the charm bracelet that dangles there. Bree and Caspian's present to me during our goodbyes. Even if they're not with me, I know they'll still be cheering their hardest back at home. My smile widens at the thought and I lay back in the bed. Maybe the Games won't be so tough after all. And once I get back, we're going to throw the biggest party in the history on Panem.

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

I sit in my bedroom after having been sent there by General Boron, though he was much less harsh than usual. I guess even he is still a bit shocked and confused at what just happened. Rhine, Lura, Lura, Rhine. I can't believe I didn't figure it out until the answer was literally staring me in the face. Maybe if I'd realised . . . what? Not like I could have done anything anyways. And to be honest, it was much nicer spending the night with Lura than with Rhine.

I still remember her Games, but at the same time I can't possibly imagine Lura in the arena. I saw her kill on TV repeatedly, but spending the week with her here in the Capitol has made me question how that was possible. So what, did she just put on an act for the Games and then try and forget all about her time in the arena when she got home?

Is that what I'm going to be like? Just try and forget everything that happened? Seems a bit redundant; after all, I did volunteer. Though that was mostly just to please my uncle, who for his part appears to never want to forget his Games. The number of times I've heard him recounting his stories of the arena is more than a thousand, at least. Everyone just loved listening to him so much, I figured they'd all want me to go into the Games too. I wonder what it would have been like if I'd grown up in a non-Career district, never knowing the pressure of volunteering. Well, for starters, I probably wouldn't be here right now.

Maybe that's why I hung out with my grandmother so much. She never gave me the slightest impression that she wanted me to risk my life in the Hunger Games. Actually, looking back on it, it almost seems as though she was _against_ the idea. But still, I know she'd support me even if she didn't like what I was doing. I smile at the dream catcher hanging above my bed. _Get some rest Code, _a voice says in my mind, sounding exactly like hers. _You don't want to be tired for tomorrow. _Obeying my grandmother, I lie back in the bed and shut my eyes, but not before I hear her whisper one more thing that brings a smile to my lips. _And pleasant dreams._

* * *

><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

I storm around the room, my feet trying to keep up with the whirlwind of thoughts entering my head. _How dare she even try something like that? She's got some nerve. And standing up to me? Where did that come from? That's never happened in our entire lives._

I slam my hand on the wall in frustration and the picture nearby trembles, then falls to the ground. The glass shatters and I sigh, knowing I'm going to have to go find an Avox to clean it up. On my way out of my room, I glare daggers at the door of my sister's. She's probably sitting in their right now, hoping that tomorrow will be my last day of life. No wait, of course she wouldn't. It's _Lura_. She's probably in tears with worry about me. I snarl in disgust at the thought.

"You. Get to my room and clean up the mess inside," I say harshly, pointing my finger at the Avox still present in the kitchen. He bows his head and quickly walks off, leaving me in the dining room. I try to smirk after him, but really I don't have the energy right now, and besides, what's the point? No one's watching anyways.

Eventually he returns and I take that as a sign that my room is clean. I hurry back to it and close the door, ready to get into bed and rest up. After all, I'll need all the energy I can get tomorrow. But something stops me from climbing under the blankets just yet. There's a little parcel on the nightstand; I eye it suspiciously. What is this? Some sort of Avox thing? Cautiously, I unwrap it, and as I read the small card that's present inside the wrappings, I realise that it has nothing to do with the Avox who came in here to clean up.

_Just in case_

_-L_

Underneath the card is a small golden chain with a ruby attached to it. Lura's necklace, her token in the arena. Automatically, my first reaction is a sneer. Does she really think I need her hand-me-downs to win the Games? I smirk and start to get into the bed, but at the last second I turn back and look at the necklace. My hand stretches out for it, hesitantly at first, but then snatches it quickly as though I don't want anyone to see. _I'm not accepting help, _I tell myself. _Help is for losers. But . . . sometimes it doesn't hurt to have a little luck._

* * *

><p><strong>Ram Underhill, District 3 Male<strong>

I sigh as I stretch back in the luxurious Capitol bed. This week went by way too fast; like the old saying goes, time flies when you're having fun. I've gorged myself on rich food, dressed in the most amazing costumes, and gotten to see sights that most people could never even dream of. I hate to be a downer, but I can't help thinking about what my brother would say at this point. _All good things come to an end._ And it's true. My week in the Capitol is done. Tomorrow I'll be going into the arena.

To my surprise, I can feel a blossom of nervousness grow inside me. I mean, I've already come to terms with the fact that I'll probably die in the Games. But now that the inevitable looms so close, a mere ten hours away, I can't help but get a little anxious. Will it hurt, to die? And what happens after?

Those are the questions my brother would be asking himself, if he was even thinking of the possibility of dying. Knowing Kelvin though, he'd probably be dead-set on coming home, using his newly acquired skills to help him survive in the arena. I don't really have any skills; I'll admit, maybe I could have used the time we'd had in training a little more wisely. Still, the fact that my life may very well end soon doesn't mean I should turn into a crabby pessimist like my brother. I've still got a night left in the Capitol to enjoy _and _tomorrow I get to ride a hovercraft for the first time. So life's still worth living, I just have to live in the moment. Don't worry about what might be coming; deal with what happens when it happens.

* * *

><p><strong>Sparkie Jesfer, District 3 Female<strong>

_Stop it Sparkie, _I tell myself. _Heroines never cry. They're brave, they're courageous!_

But I can't help it; the thought of what tomorrow might bring is too much. Say what you will about all sorts of wondrous stories, but they never tell you how hard it is for the hero to face whatever evil they're up against. I should know; I've probably read more books than all of these tributes. But no matter what, I can't see to find whatever hidden bravery the main characters always tap into to fight the villains. I'm going into the arena tomorrow and I've never been so scared in my life. Especially after seeing what each of these tributes could do in training. Anyone of them could tear me apart; they have the skills to do it. And I have nothing.

"Come on Sparkie," I whisper to myself, trying to stop crying. "You might be fine, it might be alright. Things always work out in the end for the heroines."

I bite my lip, trying to hold back further sobs and begin to tell myself the story I've been saying so much the past week.

_Once upon a time, there was a nice girl named Sparkie. She was very smart, but underappreciated. Then she got the terrible news that she'd have to fight 23 bloodthirsty monsters to the death in a booby-trapped, deadly arena. But she could do it. She'd be fine._

_Even though she was so, so scared._

* * *

><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

_Two twelve year-olds stand in the picture beaming as they show off a fish that was too pig to get in the photograph. They were so proud of themselves that day; the fish had fed their entire family for dinner. They were sure that after that, there was nothing they couldn't do._

The memories of that day come back to me as I continue to gaze at the small picture in the locket, trying to ingrain the face of my sister into my mind forever. Whatever happens in the arena, I can't forget her face. Because Meredith, for all her superior skill in weaponry, was wrong. She isn't my weak link; she's the thing that'll keep me going in the arena, keep me fighting for my life.

What is my district partner doing now, I wonder. Probably push-ups or running laps around her room, trying to get in every ounce of training she can before the Games. I have to laugh at that. Of course she'd be preparing for the arena; it seems as though her entire life revolves around nothing _but _the Games. Too bad she's not going to end up winning this thing. With Janaff's help, I might be able to get home. I can't stand the thought of trying to kill my allies, but at the same time what else can I do? Because I'm sure as hell Meredith will be planning the exact same thing.

"I'll come home Sandrine," I whisper, staring at the locket once more before I close it shut. "I promise."

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

_Finally. _I can't believe it took this long for the Games to arrive. Sure the other tributes might have needed to train, but I certainly didn't and frankly, the chariot rides and the interviews were just pointless distractions. I've been itching to get into the arena all week and finally, it's here. Tomorrow night, I'll be most likely patrolling through whatever sort of terrain the Gamemakers have planned for us, searching for victims. Maybe I'll give them one night of respite though; after all, I don't want these Games over _too _quickly.

And then what? What happens after the Games? Surprisingly, the question never occurred to me, and what's even more shocking is that I have no answer. What will happen after the Games? They were the ultimate test, the turning point in my life. And afterwards, what, I'll just be forced to try and train kids for the arena? Sure, intimidating wannabe victors is always fun, but where's the challenge? If only there were some way where the victors of the Games could go back into the arena and face off against each other; it'd be the ultimate challenge.

_Like that's going to happen, _I think to myself, smirking. These ditsy Capitol people have grown far too attached to their winners to want to watch them killed off. So I guess finding a new challenge will be up to me.

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

Oh man. Oh man, oh man, oh man.

I can't sleep; in fact, I haven't stopped pacing the room since I got in here two hours ago. I knew the Games were coming but the knowledge that they begin tomorrow, that soon I'll be fighting for my life kind of put a damper on my sleep plans. I know I need all the rest I can get; who knows when I'll get the chance to sleep in the arena. If I even make it that far.

_Calm down Lore, _I tell myself, _it's no use thinking about that_. But telling myself to relax and actually managing to do it are two entirely different things and once again I find myself pacing the room, worrying constantly about the arena, the other tributes, trying to find Taralo tomorrow during the bloodbath. We haven't really talked it over, but I've pretty much decided that our strategy is going to be meeting up and getting the heck out of there. Neither of us are up for the bloodbath; I just hope that there'll be somewhere safe we can run to.

The blankets crease as I collapse onto them, still thinking about tomorrow. The worst part is the waiting; with the fire, I didn't even have to think about what I was doing or what might happen. But this staying in my room with only my thoughts of my potential impending doom to keep me company, that takes a whole different kind of bravery. And one I'm not sure if I have.

* * *

><p><strong>Bree Hudson, District 5 Female<strong>

My fingers trace the silver moon pendant repeatedly as I lie awake in bed and from the sounds of restless footsteps coming from the room next door, I'm not the only tribute still awake. For the briefest second I contemplate going over to Lore and just talking with him; it might make us both feel better. But with the Games so near, I don't think I could. I've already made myself a pact that I won't kill him in the arena if we happen across each other, but at the same time he will have to die so that I can get back home to my brother. Lore's a great person and I wish he could live too, but Webb needs me. I can't sentence him to a life alone with our mother; I _have _to get home.

Though I may not have a choice; to be honest with myself, if it comes down to my having to fight a Career, or really any of the stronger, older tributes, I won't be coming out on the winning end. But I can't think like that. My father always said that the biggest cause of failure was beginning to doubt yourself. So I just have to believe I can win. Believe that the infinite riches and new house in Victors Village are really in my grasp. And once I become a victor, Webb and I can move into the house and leave our mother behind. _Just believe Bree, _I tell myself. _Believe._

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hickin, District 6 Male<strong>

"It'll be alright Taralo, you'll be fine."

"The escort said I would die."

"Will you really take his word over mine?"

I look at Zephyr from my place on the bed where I was previously curled up into a ball, wishing that I could go home, be anywhere but here. The thing my mother warned me about for so long, the "Hunger Games," they're starting tomorrow. I thought I was in danger of being murdered here, but it turns out they were just preparing me like a lamb for slaughter, waiting until I could be killed in the arena. The thought almost sent me over the edge, but then, for the first time since the day of the reapings, Zephyr came. And I've never been so glad to see him in my entire life.

"Will you stay with me? In the arena?" I ask him, but he doesn't respond. I guess he and I both know that whether he appears or not is entirely up to me and my mind. With all the crazy and terrifying things that have been going on, I couldn't manage to get him here until now; how will I possibly get him in the arena with me when every second there'll be someone out there trying to end my life? While here in this city millions of people will be watching it, waiting gleefully for my end to come.

_Not Summer though, _I think to myself. I'd finally realised that, despite her odd appearance, Summer wasn't one of the evil maniacs wanting us to die, like our escort was. She told me that she'd try to help me as much as she could from where she was. And I guess she did already. She gave me the book, which has helped enormously to get me through the past few days. I reach out a shaky hand and touch the cover from where it resides on my bedside table. Summer said I couldn't take it into the arena with me. I wish I could though. Actually, I wish I could sink into the pages of the book and go off and live in the land of the fairytales with all the other characters. Then I wouldn't have to face the Games. And I wouldn't be so terrified.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

_She'll watch over you in the arena Cathy, I know she will. You'll come home to me._

_I want to Dhara, I really do._

_But can I?_

My mind argues with itself back and forth, over and over again stating the same arguments. I'm the smallest tribute. Most people like me wouldn't even make it past the bloodbath. I have to allies.

But I'm also fast. I'm pretty accurate with long range weapons. I've got Dhara at home, cheering me on, as well as my parents and my brothers. And I've got Dhara's star pin, the one she said would help protect me. So maybe, that's enough. It's not over until it's over. And I haven't lost yet.

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

Tomorrow's the day. Finally, after years of planning and brewing in hate for Gwen, I'll be able to have my revenge. Fate couldn't have been more perfect.

I smile to myself, imagining her in the bedroom across from mine, fretting about what she'll do when the Games start. She knows I'll be after her. I've told the other Careers not to go near her; she's one kill that will be all mine. They agreed, mostly because I reckon they don't think there's much glory to be had in killing a fourteen year-old from District 7. They'll want to go after the tougher tributes first, letting the timid, weak ones run from the bloodbath only to be hunted later on. But I know Gwen, and there's nothing timid about her. She's not weak either; I, unlike most of my allies, know not to underestimate my opponent. Actually, I'm glad that she has a few skills; it'll mean that there's more of a chance she could survive until I get to her.

_Until tomorrow then, Gwen, _I think to myself. _Until tomorrow_.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

Ten hours. Ten hours until the Games. I sigh, knowing that I won't be getting nearly that much sleep. I just can't. I wish I could though, since I'll be in the arena tomorrow, and I don't know when I'll be getting the chance to rest then. Especially with Rowan after me.

I imagine my bloodthirsty district partner, sitting in his own room and probably dreaming about how he'll take me down. I mean, it's pretty obvious that's his plan. I just have to make sure it doesn't happen. So I run from the Cornucopia then? Don't get supplies, just get out of there to heighten my chances of surviving for the first day. But not in the long run because then I'll need the things I could have picked up. Either way, the consequences are deadly. Not for the first time, I wish I had someone to watch my back. But it's too late now, I guess. I'll have to take care of myself tomorrow, because supplies or not I _will_ win these Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

_You need your sleep, _I reason with myself. _You're body needs it tomorrow to function._

But despite my logical thinking, I can't seem to listen to what my brain is telling me. I can feel the adrenaline already coursing through me at the thought of what lies ahead of me tomorrow. I'm almost certain that I'll be able to make it past the bloodbath, but then? When will be the right time to put my plans into action and separate myself from the Careers? Two days after the bloodbath? Four days? How am I supposed to know?

I look at the picture in the locket around my neck. My parents smile up at me, their fate still yet unknown to them. My parents didn't really know what they were doing when they were attempting to start another rebellion in 8; they just did it because they thought it was right. I might not know exactly what will happen when I rebel against the Careers, but I just have to trust myself and my brain that it'll work. After all, I'm usually not wrong. A game is like a puzzle, something that has to be thought over and figured out. I always like a challenge. So maybe, I am ready for this. I just have to trust myself.

* * *

><p><strong>Precious Blue, District 8 Female<strong>

Our week is done. Tomorrow, I'll be in the arena, fighting for my life. No amazing skills, no allies, just myself against every other kid in these Games.

For the first time, I can sort of see what made Janaff want to join the Careers. They are the strongest group and could probably ensure their allies the longest survival. They get the sponsors, the supplies at the Cornucopia, pretty much what every tribute dreams of having. But at the same time, they're vicious, bloodthirsty monsters who wouldn't hesitate to turn on each other. I know that I'd never feel safe if I was with them, and I don't know how Janaff will manage it. Even though I felt a bit betrayed when he joined them, I can't help but hope that he makes it far in the Games. I don't want to have to kill him, especially since he's sort of like one of Molly's friends. But in the end, he'll have to die. I can't leave my sister alone with our father. Erica already left her to fend for herself and I will do whatever it takes to make sure that I do _not _do the same.

* * *

><p><strong>Carlisle McAwny, District 9 Male<strong>

I don't remember much of this evening. There was too much noise, too many colours and people, I just ended up tuning everything out. But I do remember showing my picture to the crowd of people when I was sitting on the brightly lit platform where the man with the strange hair had been trying to talk to me. And then afterwards, the edginess that seemed to be present in all of the kids. Over and over again, I heard the phrase, "The Games are tomorrow."

I don't know what it means. I might have understood it, a long time ago, but now it's too much for my mind to handle. I do feel the fear though, I remember that it is something very bad that is happening tomorrow. But at the same time, I feel calm. Damon could have been here in my place, feeling these awful emotions and the immense fear. But he's not; he's safe. And though nothing else is registering to me in the world, I can understand one thing and my knowledge has never been so clear in my life: for once, no matter what happens tomorrow, I've finally managed to help my brother

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini, District 9 Female<strong>

_Remember, you're not alone. I'll be cheering for you all the way._

Noah's last words run through my head as I try to fall asleep. I finger the ring on my hand; he's right, I'm not alone. I know he'll be supporting me the whole way. And I have an ally, which certainly boosts my chances for survival in the arena. But I still have my weaknesses. I can be scatter brained, I've had considerable hearing loss in my right ear from an accident when I was younger in my father's factory, and of course, there's the idea that Achilles and I will most likely be teaming up with younger, weaker tributes to protect them. Over and over again I've thought about my decision, changed my mind and then changed it again. My ultimate goal is to get home to Rachel. But can I sacrifice my humanity to do that?

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

Tomorrow is it. The day of the Games. I should be resting, saving my energy, but I can't sleep. And I doubt that most of the other tributes in this tower are drifting off easily either.

"Lights out," Mare snaps, opening my door when she sees the light on. "We told you idiots, you need all the sleep you can get. Do you want to die tomorrow in the bloodbath?"

I sigh and flick off the light. She turns to leave, but before she can I can't resist asking. "When you won, did you really leave the arena behind?

She turns to stare at me and I can't help but feel that I've asked a wrong and very rude question, but I haven't been able to get the thought out of my head ever since the private training session. About losing and dying. Or winning and going home. She opens her mouth and I get ready for some sort of biting insult, but she just says, "The arena always leaves an impression. Whether it destroys you literally or figuratively, the choice is up to you. I challenge you to find a third option," she adds softly, then leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * *

><p><strong>Devera Let, District 10 Female<strong>

I lie in bed, daydreaming about tomorrow. It is after all, the bloodbath where a lot of tributes may die. But I'm pretty good with a staff and of course, I'll have Calican there with me. Yes, my "prince charming" of a sort, though his interview outfit didn't look the part. Then again, I wasn't exactly dressed as a princess either. Really, you get a tribute who just so happens to herd geese for a job, and suddenly that's their interview costume? It's ridiculous.

Thankfully I've seen the last of my stylist, at least for a few days. Sure I'll have to see him again when I come out of the arena, but in the arena I'll just have Calican and no one else. I was actually rather surprised that he didn't want to talk strategy tonight, or give me a heartfelt speech about how he knows that he probably won't make it out of the arena and we'll have to pass insurmountable odds to win, but we can do it because we'll be together. That's always how it goes in my head. But, for the first time, my dream boy isn't a figment of my imagination. He's real and alive, and I guess I should probably try and keep him that way for as long as possible.

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

I don't know how the Capitol people expect us to sleep tonight; the knowledge that some of us will be dead in less than twelve hours is not exactly a comforting one that helps you fall asleep. _Just as long as I'm not one of them, _I think.

But what if I am? Ever since my private training session, I've been worried that the Gamemakers are going to be targeting me in the arena. After all, I pissed one off pretty badly. But I was just demonstrating my skills, making it interesting for them to watch. Hopefully they'll see that. I mean, I'll have enough to deal with the 23 other tributes trying to kill me; I don't need traps and muttations to watch for as well.

_It's just a game, _I tell myself, trying to relieve some of my stress. _A game the Capitol designed to keep us in line, to steal our children and take away their lives. _I think over my latest thought and smile. The Capitol can try all they want to take my life away; in the end, I'll just steal it back.

* * *

><p><strong>Emerald Marsh, District 11 Female<strong>

I need to get my rest, be prepared for tomorrow. After all, I won't have much of a chance surviving the bloodbath if I'm falling asleep. I've decided that I probably will try and get to the Cornucopia to grab some supplies; hopefully with my speed I'll be out of there before the fighting really starts.

I turn sideways in the bed and glance at the rock sitting on the bedside table, the same rock I once gave to David. Turns out he did keep it after all. And at the goodbyes, he gave it back to me, promising that it would give me good luck in the arena. But really, who needs luck when I've got my friends cheering me on? Even if they're not here with me, I know they'll be watching every second to make sure that I will come home. And I wouldn't want to disappoint them.

* * *

><p><strong>Noah James, District 12 Male<strong>

_Dear Gabriel_

_If you're reading this, it most likely means that I'm gone. Don't feel sad though; there's no use dwelling on the past. I know this won't stop you from mourning but just don't forget to take care of yourself. I love you little brother, and remember, I'll always be looking out for you, even if it seems like I'm not there. _

_Goodbye, _

_Noah_

I look at what I've written, wishing that I could fill the page with my last words to my brother. But I don't have that kind of talent; this is all I can offer him in consolation if I do come home in an unmarked, wooden box. I hope he'll never have to read it but just in case.

"Couldn't sleep?"

I turn to see Malia standing in the doorway, watching me. I shake my head.

"Me neither. I don't know how they could expect us to." She slowly walks in and pulls up a chair next to the one I sit in. "What's that?"

I hesitate, not really sure if I want to share something like this with her. But maybe if I do, she'll be able to give it to Gabriel. After all, if I can't come home, I went her to. That way my family would still prosper.

Gently I hand her the letter and she takes it carefully, her eyes scanning my writing. For awhile, we sit in silence; what is there to say? Comforting words are of no use at this point; saying "I'm sure you'll be fine" is a bit redundant considering where we're going. So all that's left to do is sit in silence, contemplating the horrors that will await us tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>Malia Endal, District 12 Female<strong>

"It's beautiful," I say finally. "Really, it is. But it needs one thing." Without really thinking, I grab the pencil lying on his desk and make a slight alteration to the letter. It's only when I look up and see Noah's shocked expression that I realise correcting someone's last message to their loved ones is probably not the politest thing to do. "Sorry," I say quickly. "I wasn't thinking."

"It's fine," he says gruffly, though I can see he's a bit taken aback. "Can I see?"

I hand him back the page and he reads my correction. "What's 'aurevoir'?"

I blush as he points at the place where I crossed out 'goodbye' and put a new word in its place. "It's French," I explain. "It means 'until we meet again.' I just thought that, well, goodbye sounded so . . . _final_. This way, it's kind of like you're letting him know that you'll always be around for him."

Noah just stares at the page, and as the silence grows longer I start to worry that he's mad. "I'm sorry," I say again. "I shouldn't have change it, that was really rude of me, I-"

"No," he says, cutting me off. "It's fine." He looks at me and smiles slightly. "I like it."

I grin. "I'm glad. Well," I continue, standing up, "I'd better get back to my room. Better get all the rest I can for tomorrow."

"Alright," Noah says. "Aurevoir."

I smile. "Aurevoir."

* * *

><p><em>The morning of the Games . . .<em>

**Achilles Atromitos, District 1 Male**

I walk stiffly down the hall towards the launch room, rubbing my arm from where a lady on the hovercraft injected it with a tracker. Now the Capitol won't lose me. Hurray for them.

I meet Kilila, my stylist, in the room and without a word she hands me the uniform that all tributes must wear. It consists of simple, black pants and a gold shirt. "Isn't the outfit supposed to blend in with the arena?" I ask her as I lace up the sturdy brown boots.

She purses her lip, thinking. "I believe they made a slight change this year," she says. "The shirt's colour depends on the tribute. It helps to make you more identifiable to the fans."

"Doesn't that give some people an advantage?"

"That's what I thought, but we stylists don't make the Games uniform."

We break into silence for a bit as I have a last drink of water trying to keep myself as hydrated as possible. Who knows when I'll be able to find water in the arena. I'm planning on grabbing a few supplies from the Cornucopia but I know that I'm probably one of the Careers primary targets. I figure they've taken it as a personal affront that I didn't join them, and since they know I have training I'll be a distinct threat to them, one to eliminate as soon as possible. I just have to make sure that doesn't happen.

"Oh, your godfather wanted to come and see you," Kilila says suddenly. "To give you some last minute advice."

_Of course, _I think. "Is he coming now?"

"He should be here soon; he had something to talk to the president about first."

"What?"

"Oh, just something about him owning the president a favour for something he did on the Reaping Day," Kilila says. "I didn't really catch most of it. I'll go look for him now though."

She heads out the door and leaves me in the room. I have another glass of water, trying to calm my growing nerves when an announcement comes on saying to prepare for launch. The glass casing surrounding the metal plate rises up to allow me to step in and I hesitate, wondering if I should wait for Kilila. Or maybe I could just leave right now; but no, that's ridiculous. They've got Peacekeepers outside the door and even if I missed the launch I'm sure they'd find some way to get me in the Games.

I step onto the plate and wait, but there's something bothering me in the back of my head. Something about my godfather. _Just something about him owing the president a favour for something he did on the reaping Day._ What could that possibly mean? Why would my godfather owe the president?

Something triggers in the back of my mind; a memory of our week in the Capitol at dinner, when Splendor had decided to insult our escort repeatedly.

"_How dare you? My job is extremely difficult," Lylie shrieks at Splendor, who just smirks._

"_Right. I'm sure reading those slips of paper is so difficult for you, you poor thing."_

"_It is! Sometimes the paper cuts my hand! And then this year when I had to memorise that name during the ceremony-"_

"_Why'd you have to memorise a name?" I ask suddenly and the two look at me._

"_Oh, well . . ." Lylie glances at my godfather, who remains stony faced. "I had to memorise both of your names! An escort is supposed to know her tributes, yes. How embarrassing would it be if I didn't know you?"_

But it still hadn't made any sense to me. And now that I remember that furtive glance she gave Zeus before answering me, it makes me think that something went on between the two. And then suddenly it hits me.

The look between Lylie and Zeus. The "favour" he owes the president. And before, when I found the slips of paper in our escorts dress. Cordelia Schylla and, not Achilles, but Gregory something. Why would our escort have drawn one name but said another? Because she was put up to it.

The door slides softly open behind me and I turn to see my godfather walk in. "You," I say. It all makes sense. He's wanted me to volunteer ever since I came of reaping age, but he knew I never would on my own. But, if by some chance I was reaped, I wouldn't allow anyone to volunteer in my place. He knew me well. And he used that.

The tube I'm in is sound proof, but he can read my lips. His face grows serious and he just looks at me and shrugs. And something in that gesture just makes me snap.

I pound on the glass, but it's no use and now I'm rising above, my godfather's face soon disappearing as I'm submersed in darkness. But all I can think about is what he did. How could he do that? Why would anyone send their own son into the Games? Sure, maybe I'm not his biological son, but I still thought he _cared_. Now I can see that he just wanted glory.

I'm so caught up in my rage that I barely register where I am or that the plate I stand on has stopped moving. All I can here is a loud voice shouting.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Let the 37th annual Hunger Games begin!"


	25. The Beginning of the End, Part 1

_**Okay, so the Games have now and officially begun! But just letting you all know now, this only the first part of the bloodbath. I was originally going to do it all in one chapter, but after hitting 5000 wordss and not even being nearly done, I figured I'd do it in parts. I think people would cry if they saw an updated chapter 10 000 words long :)**_

_**Also, having it in two parts gives me a chance to get better! This is actually my first Hunger Games story to make it all the way to the Games, so I'm a bit new at doing deaths and all that stuff, but I'd love to get better, so leave a review if you've got any advice! Too fast? Too slow? Not gory enough? Too gory? Though I don't think the Hunger Games could ever get too gory :)**_

_**And I'm really sorry to all those who's tributes died, believe me it was so hard to decide. I made up my mind, changed it, changed it back and changed it to something completely different. So I'm sorry! **_

**_Anyways, enjoy the first part of the bloodbath!_**

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

I've known some Hunger Games arenas to be pretty different. But I _never_ saw this coming. I don't think anyone did.

As the last few metal plates click into place, even the Careers can't help staring at the arena before them. We're all placed in a circle near the edges of a tall, imposing tower. From this vantage point, I can see the entire arena spread out before us. At the base of the tower stretches out a vast, green forest and I can just see the edges of a sea sparkling near the south side of the arena while a miniature version of a castle rises from the north. There's probably more to the place, but the densely packed trees completely impede anyone from seeing what's inside the forest. And really, anything could be hiding in there.

_So how are we supposed to get down?_ I wonder, scanning the edges of the tower. They can't just keep us all up here; the Games would be over in a matter of minutes. And I can't stay; three tributes away from me is the girl from 2, and I don't like the way she's eying the supplies. Then how . . .

There. Right behind me attached to the roof of the tower is a long rope that stretches all the way to the ground beneath us. At first glance it doesn't look all that sturdy, but then again, it has to be. The Capitol wants a show; watching tribute after tribute fall to their deaths isn't going to be all that entertaining to watch.

_Then let's give them something to watch._ Suddenly, I smile. Originally, the ropes hadn't seemed like a terribly good escape plan to me; couldn't someone just try and cut through it while I'm climbing down? I'd have to be fast. Or I could just take advantage of the opportunity I have now when none of the other tributes can move.

Doubt clouds my thoughts for a second. I've only got one shot to do this right, or I'll be dead for sure. And what about the landmines? They're set to blow if a tribute takes a step off their plate before the gong has sounded. Then again, I won't exactly be taking any steps.

I take a deep breath and steel myself. Everyone else is using their sixty seconds to try and formulate an escape plan, but I've got other ideas. For me, the Games are beginning now.

I notice Emerald looking at me from her position seven tributes to my left. This is it; time to give them a show. I give her a cheery wink and a salute, attracting the attention from some of the other tributes as they look over to see what I'm doing. I keep a smile on my face and for a moment they just dismiss me as being an overly-confident jerk, but then without warning I leap backwards and off of the tower.

Whatever sounds the tributes make in response to my reaction is lost as I plummet through the air, the roar of the wind almost deafening. But as quickly as I can, I reach out and grab the rope hanging on the side of the tower. My descent jerks to a halt and my arms are nearly pulled out of their sockets as I struggle to hold on. Gritting my teeth at the pain, I waste no time scurrying down the rope, nearly sliding in my effort to get away from the tower. My arms are sore, my hands burning from the rough surface of the rope, but I don't care. In fact, I allow myself a little grin. I made it. Once again, I've cheated the system.

But of course, the Gamemakers will try anything to not be shown up; since I never actually set off the mines, they resort to doing it manually and the cacophonous _boom_ hits my ears just as the rope slackens and suddenly I stop climbing down the tower and start falling. But they're too late; I took the fact that they'd set off the mines into consideration and though the fall knocks the wind out of me as I crash to the ground, I've gotten far enough down the tower to not even get badly injured, let alone killed. I fell 12 feet, at most.

My ears are just returning to normal from hearing the loud blast of the explosion when the gong rings out and the bloodbath begins. Though not for me. I smile to myself as I hobble into the woods, the sounds of shouting and clanging metal audible from even down here. Up there, tributes are going to be dying. But I won't be one of them.

At least, not today.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

I can't see what happened on the other side of the glimmering Cornucopia, but I can hear the explosion and feel the vibrations it causes. Some idiot must have stepped off their platform before the gong rang out. The image of Rowan immediately comes to mind, but I dismiss it; unfortunately, he's not _that_ stupid.

Speaking of my hated enemy, I glance around the ring of tributes, looking for my district partner. No sign of him; he must be on the other side of the Cornucopia. Although I'm sure I'll be seeing him soon enough. There's no way he'd let me get away from the bloodbath alive.

The gong sounds and I hardly realise it as I take off running to the right of the Cornucopia; heading right into the thick of the fights would probably not be the best idea. Especially since I know Rowan will be there. And this time, I feel can feel a slow trickle of fear running through me rather than the usual disgust that fills me when I hear his name. _What I need, is a weapon,_ I think, and thankfully I can see a stray knife lying not too far from my position. I alter my course and head instead for the weapon, never slowing as I scoop it up from the ground, narrowly dodging an arrow that flies straight for my head as I do so. I turn to see the youngest Career, the girl from District 1, reloading her bow, but she's already moved onto her next target as more tributes come near the golden horn.

I pick the arrow up as well (who knows when it might come in handy) and start heading for the edge of the tower, hoping to find one of those strong ropes I saw earlier that could lead me away from this bloody zone and into the safety of the forest below. Already tributes are getting killed; I watch in horror as the District 4 female advances on another girl tribute, from 11 I think. The Career slashes at the thirteen year-old with her axe and the younger one cries out and falls, clutching her stomach and trying desperately to stop her blood from seeping out onto the tower roof. The District 4 girl, Meredith I think her name was, slowly advances and the one from 11, Emerald I'm pretty sure, uses one hand to try and pull herself along in a desperate attempt to get away. Meredith smirks, one so large I can see it from here, and pulls a long sword out of her belt with almost loving care, then drives it down through Emerald's leg and into the ground. Her shrieks are nearly as deafening as the landmine explosion, and she begins to sob, her attempts to escape vanishing as she tries to keep her leg still so as to not open the wound anymore. Meredith however, seems to have other plans. She grabs the hilt of the weapon and twists it, eliciting another scream from Emerald. Meredith's smile widens, making me sick, and twists it once more before stopping, letting Emerald try and deal with the agony before she ends her life. The younger girl is still sobbing, clutching her leg, but I watch as her cries slowly turn into deep, rasping gasps, and with one final muster of courage, she looks straight into Meredith's eyes, daring her to continue.

I stop watching at that point; the smirk on Meredith's face leaves me with no doubt about how it'll end. Emerald's life is over, her shot at victory has ended. It had to happen; only one person can win the Games after all. So why do I feel so awful for just watching and doing nothing?

I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts that I don't notice where I'm running and I accidentally barrel into another tribute, knocking us both to the ground. I hesitate for a second, confused. But hesitations can kill in the Games.

I roll over and stand, knife out and ready to attack my opponent, half-wondering why they hadn't already made their move. My reflexes are slower; most of the other tributes could have managed to kill me, or at the very least, injure me. And then I see the pale skin and nearly as white hair and I realise why I'm not dead yet. The person I ran into was Taralo Hicken, the boy from District 6.

He stares up at me with wide, frightened eyes, making no move to try and attack me back. It would be so easy right now; a quick flick of my wrist and my knife would be sent spiralling into his head. One more tribute down.

He catches a glimpse of something behind me and his eyes widen, his mouth forming an unspoken cry. I turn to see two tributes on the ground, fighting as hard as they can with their fists, as neither seems to have a weapon. The blonde-haired, older one I recognise as Ram from District 3. I can't get a good glimpse of his opponent as he seems to be pinned to the ground by the former, but as Ram is hit by a painful blow to left eye he falls back slightly and I can see who the other tribute is. Lore Fury.

I look back at Taralo, who's staring at them, every so often jerking forwards as if he's trying to get to them, but something's stopping him from going. His eyes meet mine; pale blue ones staring into my own brown orbs and I almost feel as though he's asking for something. What? To not hurt him? To help Lore? Sorry, but I already made that decision during our week at the Capitol. These kinds of allies will only drag me down. But still, I hesitate, the knife positioned to throw but never leaving my fingers. Kill Taralo and let Ram kill Lore, which appears to be his intention as I glance back over at the scene and watch his hands reach for the younger boy's throat. Then that'll be the end of their alliance. So is that what I pick? A devastating end?

Or a new beginning?

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

The District 11 male's little display completely threw me off, and I didn't realise the gong had gone off until about a minute later. Cursing, I started running, dodging and weaving through other tributes that had already begun to fight. I needed to get off this tower as soon as possible; but first I had to find my ally.

"Taralo!" I shouted, my eyes scanning the fighting tributes, looking for his white hair. It's not exactly hard to miss. "Taralo!" Where is he? Already dead? _No, _I think, pushing the thought from my mind. He can't be. Not yet.

I race around the golden Cornucopia, passing the District 12 boy as he runs in the opposite direction, probably looking for his own ally; his district partner was right between me and Dylian. Great, so I've found _his _ally. Why can't I find my own?

I'm just wondering if I might have gone in the wrong direction searching for Taralo when out of nowhere a tribute tackles me, knocking us both to the ground. For a second my brain doesn't comprehend what just happened, but a painful punch on the side of my face brings me back to my senses. I retaliate immediately, throwing a punch upwards and hitting my attacker in the eye, causing him to wince. I know who he is now; Ram Underhill, the guy from 3. Unfortunately my hit doesn't sway him enough to allow me to struggle out from underneath and get to my feet, which is really what I need because I'm _really_ not in a good position pinned to the ground. As if he can read my thoughts, Ram emphasises them by delivering a pounding blow into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Coughing and gasping, I try desperately to get the air back into my lungs, consequently slowing my reflexes. I don't even register the next movement of his hand, but suddenly there's a crack and searing hot pain races through me as blood spills from my now broken nose. Ram pulls back his hand and just stares for a few seconds, looking from me to his hand, which is stained red with blood. _My _blood.

"Sorry," he says, and the weirdest thing about it is that it's a genuine apology. "But I guess this is how the game has to be played." He sighs regretfully, and stretches out his hands but not to throw a punch this time. I'm still a bit out of it from his last hit, the throbbing pain in my nose currently occupying all of my thoughts, but I do register what happens when his hands reach around my throat. _No, no, no, no_, I think, my brain going into overdrive as I begin to panic. _He can't . . ._ but already I can feel the fingers tightening around my throat, and despite my struggling attempts to breathe I can't get any air into my lungs. My hands go to his, desperately trying to peel them away but it's no use; he's too strong. And I'm going to die.

_This is it_, I think, but I'm still struggling for air, still trying to get him off of me because this can't be it; this can't be how I'm going to spend my last moments. It can't be over-

All of a sudden, Ram's grip loosens and he coughs, covering my face in some sort of warm, gross liquid. Blood. I look up at him, wondering if maybe this is some sort of lack-of-oxygen induced hallucination my brain has created. Maybe I'm already dead. But that can't be right, can it? I'm pretty sure if I were dead, I wouldn't be in pain. And I don't think that hearing the screams and shouts of the other tributes is supposed to be in there either.

Ram's eyes darken, his lips forming words that he never gets to utter as slowly, his heart stops. Someone pushes him over and he rolls off of me but I really don't care who this new person is; I just want air back in my lungs. I'll never take oxygen for granted again.

"If you wouldn't _mind_," a voice says, dripping with disdain. "Today would be nice."

I open my eyes and stare up at the person standing above me. Gwen. Gwen? What?

She must have noted by confusion, because she answers my unspoken question. "You said you wanted an alliance, didn't you?" And her features soften as she smiles slightly and gives me her hand. "Now let's get out of here."

"Taralo," I start to say as she hauls me up, but I can barely get the first syllable out before I'm coughing and gasping again. I guess speaking and getting strangled don't exactly go hand in hand. But she doesn't need to answer, because a moment later my other ally appears behind Gwen, looking fearful and as pale as ever but somehow, miraculously unharmed. He stares at me in horror and I realise that I probably look like a mess, what with being covered in both mine and Ram's blood. I wipe my hand across my face in an effort to get rid of the red, sticky substance, but I end up just swirling it around on my face more than anything else.

"Come on," Gwen says, pulling her knife out of Ram and wiping it on his uniform, a slight look of disgust on her face. Then she turns back to us. "You can clean up later. Right now we have to go."

I nod and the two of us follow her to the edge of the tower, where the ropes lay waiting for tributes to make their escapes. After assessing my shaky condition and the fact that Taralo's shaking like a leaf, she deals out the commands; she'll go down first, then me, then Taralo, in case either of us fall. Though I doubt she'd be able to really catch us. The best course of action would be to wait until the two of us are in better conditions, but the one thing we need for that is time. Which is something we don't have. She gets down and grabs a hold of the rope, slowly letting herself down the tower, and I wait until there's enough space between the two of us for me to go. I turn to Taralo and try to give him a reassuring smile, though it probably looks pretty hideous right now. But the feeling is there. We're out of the bloodbath. Soon, we'll be safe, at least for the moment. And best of all, we're alive.

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

I advance on the trembling District 3 girl, who's looking around desperately for an escape. But really, there is none; she's backed up against the golden Cornucopia, no weapons nearby for her to grab. Although I doubt she'd be able to use them even if she could get her hands on one.

"P-please," she whispers, cradling her left arm, which I cut straight to the bone with my own weapon. Blood rolls down her face from another cut on her forehead, mixing with the tears from her eyes. "This-this isn't how it's s-supposed to end."

"It is for you," I say, and thrust my knife forwards for the fatal blow. She gasps in pain and her fingers wrap around the hilt in a futile effort to pull it out and save herself. Her lips tremble as she tries to speak, but all that comes out is a deluge of blood. Still, she manages to mouth three words: _Happily ever after_. And then she's gone.

"Not today," I whisper in answer to her final attempt at words, slowly pulling my knife from her stomach. "Maybe next time."

Of course, there's no answer from her. I smirk and get to my feet. Normally I might have drawn out a kill longer, but really I just wanted to get this one over with; it's a distraction from my main goal. Gwen

Really, it's all because I had to make this thing perfect. I couldn't exactly kill her with substandard weapons, now could I? No, what I wanted was the meat-cleaver sort of knives that we used at the butchery. That way I could make her death _really _fun.

I step away from Sparkie and head to the nearest pile of weapons, searching through them for what I'm looking for, ignoring the fights going on around me. I think I made it evident in training that any tribute who attempted to cross me would be very, _very_ sorry. So I'm left undisturbed.

The slightest feeling of doubt overtakes me and for a second I worry that the Gamemakers didn't include my special knives in the piles of weapons, but those thoughts quickly vanish as I move an axe aside and see them. Two cleavers, identical to the ones that I used at home. I smile evilly. Excellent.

However, my positive mood is somewhat dampened as I head around the Cornucopia looking for my district partner only to watch her black hair quickly disappear over the edge of the tower. No. I start running for them, watching as the boys from 5 and 6 follow her down the rope. I thought she wasn't allying with anyone? Not that I'm worried about those two losers; but I don't want her getting away from me. This was supposed to be it. My ultimate chance!

I keep sprinting towards them, thinking over my options. Of course, I'll have to follow them down the rope now and kill her at the base of the tower; it'd be no fun just cutting the rope and letting her fall to her death. I've been planning my revenge for too long now to give her that painless a death. I'll catch her at the bottom and make quick work of her little allies before we move in to the _real_ fun.

I'm so distracted by my plans that I barely register the whistling sound of a weapon flying through the air before it hits me. Luckily my reflexes are good, and I roll to the side as the spear aimed at my back just barely grazes my arm. I come back up into a standing position and turn angrily to find out whoever did this. I don't have _time_ for distractions; if there's another tribute wanting a death wish, then they'll have to make an appointment.

It's the girl from 9, standing by the Cornucopia. I snarl viciously at her and she grabs another spear from the pile near her before taking careful aim and throwing it again. I dodge to the side and heft my knives. _Fine_. This girl wants a fight, she can have one. I turn slightly back towards where Gwen disappeared, my face set. _I'll get her,_ I promise myself. _I will hunt her down and make her sorely regret the day she ever crossed me._

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini, District 9 Female<strong>

Originally I was running around trying to find Achilles so we could meet up and get off of the tower. But I saw the boy from 7, Rowan, heading towards the younger group of allies from 5, 6 and 7, and I had to intervene. Maybe saving tributes won't get me home. But I could never forgive myself if I stood by and watched him kill them, knowing that I could have done something but didn't.

My spears seem to only anger him, but at least they draw his attention away from the others. I would have been fine with leaving it at that; I've seen this maniac in training and I know that taking him in a fight would be incredibly dangerous. But it seems that Rowan isn't going to let me have that choice.

I grab a sword just as he reaches me at the Cornucopia and swing it to block the jab he tried to make with his knife. He swings again with the other and I duck, coming back up with a blow of my own. Unfortunately, he's pretty skilled too, and manages to block the attack. "You swing like a girl," he says mockingly as I dodge another attack.

"My father is the owner of the biggest weapon's company in District 9,"I say, retaliating with another blow and smiling when it nearly knocks him off balance. "I played with weapons as a child for fun."

He loses the smirk when I almost best him, and his face just looks dangerous now. "My father's a butcher," he says, swinging with a lot more force than before and I just barely manage to block it, feeling the vibrations all through my body. "I killed animals for fun. Figured people wouldn't be all that different. Just less tasty." Then he grins again, a nasty, evil grin that makes my blood boil. He may not be from a Career district, but he has the mindset of one and it angers me. How I could have ever thought to ally with these monsters is beyond me. They kill kids, innocent kids who just happened to be in their way. Well, I intend to stop that from happening.

The two of us continue our fight, though it looks almost more like some sort of intricate dance as we slash at each other and dodge blows. But no one is specifically at the advantage, and I've begun to wonder on the outcome of this battle. Rowan and I are pretty evenly matched; he's powerful, but let's his rage fuel that, leading to him making some mistakes. My sword flashes and suddenly a gash appears on his left arm, almost identical to the spear wound I gave him on his right. He snarls again and fights back harder, but I can see that he's tiring. I might actually win this fight.

My weakness was my right ear. I still can't hear as well with it, and it was my downfall in the end.

I don't register the sound of the flying knife until it's too late; it slices by the right side of my head and I cry out as pain flares up all around me. Rowan takes the opportunity to knock me to the ground, where he stands, staring over me grinning that evil smirk, knives in both hands. I should do something, I should . . . but none of my muscles are responding. I feel slowed down, groggy, due to blood loss, I assume. But that can't be right. I put my hand to the side of my face, expecting to find that the knife just sheared off a few of my brown curls even though a part of me knows it must have been worse because of the pain I feel. I can feel a sticky substance coating the side of my head and nothing else. Nothing else . . . I run my hand frantically over my head again, ignoring the pain, but it's true. There's nothing but an open wound and a lot of blood. My ear is . . .

"Thought you might have been able to use the help." I hear the voice from far away and only on the one side. Suddenly the girl from 4, Meredith, comes into view.

Rowan sneers. "I don't need any help, especially not to take care of her." He kneels beside me and smirks. "So, how should we do this? No one is stupid enough to attack me, except for you, that is. So we have plenty of time on our hands. And you deprived me of a kill I so very much wanted to make." He looks at me, dark brown eyes piercing my blue ones, and I can see that this boy does not possess a hint of compassion or mercy. But what was I expecting? I'm smarter than that.

Without warning, he stabs downwards, right into my thigh. I can feel the knife twisting, severing tissue and muscle until it hits bone. It's all I can do not to scream; I have to be strong, for Noah and for my dear Rachel, who are both probably watching right now. Oh gosh, my Rachel. What is she thinking now?

The thought of my daughter sends strength coursing through my veins, and I try to stand, attempting to ignore the searing pain in my leg. "I don't think so," Rowan says smirking and shoves me back to the ground. But I still feel stronger, and though my leg is damaged my arm isn't. With all my force, I pull it back and punch him right in his smirking face. His arrogant expression immediately disappears as his head jolts backwards from the impact. I find it interesting that Meredith makes no move to help him. In fact, she seems amused to watch him snarl in rage. I have a feeling that this alliance the Careers have is not going to last long. She says something about "leaving him to play," and goes off, presumably in search of more innocent children to murder.

Rowan's enraged face comes into view, his venomous glare almost enough to make me flinch. I've never been the sole focus of one person's entire rage before, and it is a frightening thing to behold. And worse is the knowledge that I've just exacerbated the situation with my small act of defiance. I didn't want Rachel to suffer while I suffered; but she will now.

I'm jolted out of my thoughts of my daughter as Rowan grabs my wrists with one hand and yanks them upwards, pulling me up slightly off the ground as well. "Think that was funny?" he asks, squeezing the bones together and I tense from the pain, but don't flinch. He growls at my lack of reaction and slams them back onto the ground above my head. "Well, as much as I enjoyed it I think you've got to learn that that's not something you can do to a Career without being punished." His eyes flash as he raises one of his knives. "And I know just the way."


	26. The Beginning of the End, Part 2

_**Sorry, chapter upload didn't work the first time. Here's the real chapter**_

_**Over 200 reviews! WHOOHOO! This is four times as much as I've ever gotten on a story before! Thank you guys all so much for reviewing, you all totally rock!**_

_**So, once again I changed my mind about who would be dying in the bloodbath. It's so hard to kill off all of these wonderful characters! So because of the insane amount of reviews I got asking for her to live, she lives :) That means only 5 people are dying in the bloodbath. I'm sorry if that seems slightly unrealistic, since in Katniss's Games like, half the tributes were killed off the first day, but I didn't want to get rid of all these wonderful characters just yet! There were lots of injuries though to make up for it :)**_

_**Don't forget to check out the new poll on my profile to vote for your 3 favourite tributes! Help them go far in the Games!**_

_**So without further ado, the second part of the bloodbath! Thanks again for all the reviews, you guys are all amazing! :)**_

* * *

><p><strong>Achilles Atromitos, District 1 Male<strong>

The tridents clash in midair, sparks flying as the gleaming metal rods grind against each other, making an ungodly loud noise. But I don't have time to care about trivial things like that; the District 4 boy makes another swing and I lunge to the side, narrowly avoiding being skewered. "I think you're at the disadvantage," he manages to say as he sidesteps my retaliating blow. "I do live in District 4 after all. I've been training with a trident my whole life."

"Good to know," I say, swinging my weapon around and just missing his head as he ducks before spinning around and attempting to plunge his trident into my side. I hop backwards, landing on one of the crates stocked up at the Cornucopia and he tries to hit me again but misses, his weapon plunging into another box. Desperately he tries to tug it out, but it's firmly stuck in there. I could kill him, right now. I raise my trident, getting ready to drive it into his skull, but something stops me. My godfather showing Cordelia and I a recap of his Games on the train, trying to teach us how his strategy had worked. His first kill had been done the exact same way as I'm about to kill Perrin.

I drop my trident to my side and turn away from him, jogging around the Cornucopia. I know I've made a mistake that will probably come back to haunt me later, but I can't do it. Then the line between my godfather and I will become even more blurred and I don't know if I'd be able to live knowing that.

The whistling in my ears registers and I dive to the side right as a spear flies past me. Raising my head, I look back towards Perrin, who's holding another spear in his hand. It's pretty clear I'm not going to be able to get away from a fight with this guy without incapacitating him in some way or another. "Alright then," I say, hefting my trident. "Let's see how well you can adapt to other weapons."

Once again, metal clashes on metal as we meet again, only this time it's different weapons being used. He's pretty good with a spear, I'll give him that, but it still takes a bit of time for him to adapt to such a long rod, and he takes a swing at me that, had he a shorter object, such as his trident, would have been fatal, but because the spear is so long it's only the shaft that hits my arm, leaving a bruise and nothing more. However, he does manage to shake me and using his other hand wrenches the trident out of my grasp.

"Guess I win," he says, pointing the spear at my head.

Frantically my hand grasps for something behind me, anything that might be able to help, and I smile as my fingers wrap around a familiar feeling hilt. "Not quite." I swing the sword up just as he stabs with his spear and manage to the block the blow. "You're not the only one . . . who can adapt," I say in between attempts at landing a hit. He doesn't respond, just narrows his eyes as he concentrates hard on dodging my attacks, trying to succeed with one of his own. But slowly, I can feel him getting the better of me; his skills with a spear are better than mine with a sword. I need to find some way to end this now or magically gain the upper hand, otherwise this battle is not going to end well for me.

Suddenly, I remember my earlier move, and smile. As he tries to attack me once more, I jump onto one of the crates again. He laughs, thinking I'm doing this in order to try and make him lose the spear the same way he lost the trident, but he soon discovers that that's not my intention. _Always fight from higher ground, if you can,_ my godfather used to say. One of the only pieces of advice I've ever taken from him.

I swipe the sword downward, thinking it to be another futile attempt at landing a blow, when I see the small trickle of red stain his blue shirt. He frowns at it, more annoyed with the fact that I managed to hit him rather than anything else. It wasn't a major injury, but it was a first. I allow myself a small smile in triumph, but I should have taken advantage of his surprise when I'd had the chance, because at that moment he leaps up onto the crate besides me and readies his spear. "Let's even the odds."

And we're at it again, weapons flying through the air, though as the minutes pass the small cut I gave Perrin is still the only injury either of us has sustained. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up though; what I need to do is find Imogen and get out of here. He swings again and I dodge as suddenly a window of opportunity flashes before my eyes.

Perrin lunges with the spear and I leap upwards, landing firmly on top of two crates stacked together. My opponent looks up at me, an irritated look clearly saying, _oh, come on,_ written all over his face. I shrug and slice downwards, missing him by an inch as he jumps onto my now-abandoned crate.

The fight continues but opportunity seems to be shining down on me as our blades clash and I quickly twisted my sword, coming down on the metal shaft of the spear and knocking it from Perrin's hands. The two of us stare at each other for a second and then he makes a grab for the nearest weapon before swinging it around to face me. It's only then that the two of us realise what it is.

"Really?" I say, staring at the curved wooden stick he holds before him. Honestly, why would the Gamemakers even bother putting a boomerang in the pile?

He himself looks slightly disappointed, but with no other weapons nearby, it seems to be the only option, so he readies himself to fight again. I sigh and ready my sword, but just before the two of us can go at it again, a scream pierces the air. My whole body tenses and I can feel my throat closing, making it difficult to breathe. Imogen.

Perrin looks equally shocked and I'm surprised to find the slightest bit of horror in his expression. It must be one of his allies attacking her; no one else could best Imogen. So why is he looking so worried?

The two of us just stare for a second longer before Perrin's eyes flicker down to his weapon. He seems unsure as to whether to continue the fight or not, but my reflexes take hold and I react before he can make his decision. Perrin falls to the ground as my punch slams into his head and I don't stop to see whether he's unconscious or just a bit dazed; right now, it doesn't matter. I just have to get to my ally.

"Imogen!" I shout, not caring who hears me, in fact hoping someone does so I can draw them away. "Imogen where-?" But further questions are unnecessary as I round the corner of the Cornucopia and find myself staring in horror and the scene before me.

The monstrous boy from District 7 (Rowan or whatever his name was) is looming over a tribute so covered in blood I can barely tell who it is. It's only when he slices down with his meat cleavers and skims one of the few remaining strips of skin left on the tributes right arm and another nearly animalistic cry comes from the bloody victim that I realise with a shock that my ally is the one being tortured.

For a second I'm paralysed with terror, unable to do anything but watch as he lowers the knife again and almost artistically draws another deep line of red across her stomach. She shrieks again, though it's slightly muffled as though she's using all of her remaining strength to try and keep from making any sound. _Of course she is, _I think, remembering back to our conversation in the training room back at the Capitol. Already it feels like a lifetime ago. _She's got a daughter at home probably being forced to watch this right now. She wants to spare her as much grief as she can._

It's this thought that snaps me out of my frozen state and without hesitation I charge at Rowan, slicing my sword through the air and aiming right for is head, hoping to end this sick psycho's life and do the world a favour.

Unfortunately, he's more skilled than that, and notices me soon enough to duck before the fatal blow can land. He rolls away and comes to a standing position a few feet from me as we face off against each other. Quickly, I assess the situation; he's got a few cuts on his arms and a blossoming bruise on his cheek, but otherwise the two of us are pretty much unharmed. The only problem is that I'm still slightly fatigued from my fight with Perrin; then again, Rowan doesn't look the most energetic either. _Imogen wouldn't have gone down without a fight,_ I think, the smallest seed of pride growing inside me as I think of my ally's skills. But I can admire her strengths later; right now I have to fight for her life.

I charge Rowan and he side-steps, nearly cutting me open with one of his meat-cleavers but I manage to block it with my sword at the last moment. The problem is, he has two weapons and as he swings the other around I just manage to duck, though it was a close shave. Literally, I realise, as a few golden strands of my hair fall to the ground after being sliced off by Rowan's cleavers.

"Really, you should be thanking me," Rowan says as he blocks another of my hits with both of his blades, our faces inches apart as we try to push the other off balance. "I was just trying to help with her looks. Blood red is such an attractive colour." Suddenly he shoves forwards, and I lose my footing, barely managing to stay upright. But Rowan's always one to take advantage of an opponent's weakness; he swings the knife through the air and I grit my teeth as pain flares along my chest, the golden fabric quickly being overrun by streaks of scarlet as blood leaks out of the deep cut. He doesn't stop, slashing down again but hitting metal, not flesh as I bring my blade up to meet his. There's another clang as the weapons meet and the vibrations they cause nearly cause me to topple over again in my woozy, blood-lost state. But I have to hold on. For Imogen.

"So what do you think of her new look?" Rowan asks, his trademark smirk present on his face once more. He pushes me away and I stumble back before just getting my sword up in time to meet another one of his attacks. But I'm losing, I know it. "Personally, I think her daughter would like it."

For a moment his words don't register and I just stare at him, unable to process what he just said. Surprisingly, he doesn't attack; I guess Rowan's just as much about emotional pain as physical and he seems to be enjoying my reaction to his words. But then the meaning sinks in and despite my tired and slightly addled condition my vision fills with red as my hate of him intensifies six-fold. Someone roars, an alarmingly loud, guttural roar that sounds more like an animal than a human. Maybe it was from me.

I don't even register what happens but one second I'm frozen by his words and the next second my blade is swinging through the air so fast Rowan can't even react. I don't even see where I hit him, but the howl he lets out both satisfies me and chills me to the bone. So I did get him. But I never could have imagined Rowan of all people making that sort of cry of agony.

I go to stab at him again, make it fatal this time, but in the middle of its arc above my head the sword stops as I catch a sight of what my first swing did.

Rowan is staring, eyes wider than I've ever seen them and some sort of bloody stump he holds in his hand. Only I quickly realise with a sickening jolt that he's not holding anything; the bloody stump is his wrist, and his hand is lying a few feet away from us in a pool of scarlet blood.

The two of us just stare at the unattached limb for a second, its finger's still wrapped around one of the silver meat cleavers he used. I can't believe that I was responsible for that . . . that torture. I cut off his hand.

I look at Rowan and nearly flinch as my eyes meet his. He always had an intense gaze no one ever wanted to meet, but now the dark brown colour looks almost black projecting more hate and loathing than I thought one person was capable of. If he ever had a conscience, however small, it just died along with his hand.

"The two of you better watch your backs," he says, but his voice is raspier, more strained than usual. "I'll be coming." And before I can move he turns and sprints off in the other direction, trying to support his butchered arm and stop the flow of the blood. I hesitate for a second; I should go after him now, when he's weakened because I have no doubt that he will come after us later. And I might not be able to pull off another win.

But right now, my ally needs me. Imogen . . . I almost forgot about her in the heat of the battle. I turn around and run to the massacred tribute on the ground, praying that I'm not too late. The number of fighting tributes is slowly dwindling as more and more make their escapes over the edge of the tower or, in a few horrible cases, merely lie still on the ground and don't get up. We have a bit of time, but once everyone is gone the Careers will regroup and I don't like the odds of me trying to fight off Perrin, Meredith, Rowan and the rest of their little minions all at once.

Gently, I press two fingers to Imogen's throat, hoping, wishing, _begging_ that I'll feel something. A pulse, no matter how faint.

Silence.

"Come on Imogen," I whisper softly, using my other hand to try and stop the bleeding even though she's cut everywhere and I don't even know where to start. "Don't die, don't die . . ."

Silence.

Despite myself, my fingers press harder against her throat. This is _not_ how it's going to end; it can't be, she can't die before the Games have barely begun! What about our alliance, what about her family and friends back at home? She can't give up yet! But there's still no response and my eye sight blurs slightly as tears begin to form there. My fingers are still waiting for a pulse I've begun to fear they'll never feel because inside my heart I know that she's gone. She's really gone.

Sile-

_Pulse._

I stare down at my fingers, not sure if what I just felt was real; it's possible that it was just some sort of sadness-induced hallucination. No, there it is again; a slight, hesitant flutter, almost non-existent. But there. And that's all that matters.

Now we just have to get out of here as fast as possible. I glance desperately around the edges of the tower, but of course, it only tells me what I already know. The only way we're getting off of here is by climbing down the ropes. I look back at Imogen, not wanting to move her in such a fragile state but knowing that if we don't leave soon, we'll be much worse off. But she can't climb in her condition. And I wouldn't be able to hold her and scale the ropes at the same time.

Suddenly, my eyes alight on a piece of equipment not too far from us; a small but strong looking coil of elastic cord. I snatch it up, and run back, whispering a quick apology to Imogen before heaving her off of the ground. Her face tightens and she lets out a wince as my arms rub against her injuries but it's a necessary evil. I can just see Meredith around the Cornucopia engaged with another tribute; it won't be long before she finishes them off and comes looking for more victims. And right now, we're walking targets.

I carry my ally over to the nearest escape rope and begin to wind the cord around the two of us so that we're secured together, facing each other. Hopefully that'll help to keep Imogen supported. Without hesitating, I grab the rope and we both awkwardly climb off the ledge and begin the descent to the base of the tower. For a scary second it seems like Imogen is going to slip right through the harness I made, but the cord holds firm and we stay attached. She grits her teeth as her back rubs against the rough stone of the building and opens one eye for the first time.

"A-Achilles?"

I almost miss her words, they're so faint coming from her mouth. She sounds so fragile and, well, tortured that I almost stop right then and there on the tower, not wanting to put her through more agony as we climb down. How could one person survive in this much pain?

"It's me, Imogen," I say, steeling myself and continuing our descent, ignoring my straining muscles as they try to carry the weight of us both. If she can still be alive after all that, I can handle bringing us to safety. "He's gone now, you're going to be alright."

She whispers something else, something I don't quite catch. "What?"

"Are there . . . c-cameras near . . .?"

It's an odd question to be asking in her predicament, but if it's so important to her that she can't rest without knowing the answer, I'll give her one. The rope sways slightly as I look from side to side, but we're high up off the ground. There's no way they could get a good shot of us from up here. "No, I don't think so."

She nods and then seems to allow herself to fall apart, burying her face into my shirt and breaking into quiet, agonising sobs. I can feel the tears running down her face and onto my chest, stinging as the salty water gets into the cut Rowan so kindly left for me, but I ignore the pain and let her weep as we descend the tower where her daughter won't be able to see her brave mother cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Devera Let, District 10 Female<strong>

I shake my head. "Oh Cally, what _have_ you been doing?"

My district partner jumps back in shock until he realises who it is. "Devera," he says through gritted teeth as he finishes tying a piece of material over a wound bleeding profusely from his leg. "What are you doing?"

"I think I asked you that first," I say, but further explanation from him is unnecessary as I notice the bloody arrow discarded nearby. "Fight with the District 1 female, didn't you? Don't worry; I'll get her at some point." I glance around the Cornucopia where a few tributes are still battling. I still have yet to get my hands on a staff. Calican stares at me for a second as though he's not quite sure what to think of my statement or of me. After all, we never decided that we were 'officially' allies, but he is my boyfriend, the one who's supposed to do anything for me, so it's kind of obvious. But I sigh slightly; by the looks of how easily he managed to get himself wounded, it doesn't seem like he's as competent as I first thought. "Get yourself to safety honey, doesn't look like you'll do well in these kinds of fights. I'll meet you at the bottom." I give him a little wave and turn back to the Cornucopia to get my staff when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Devera," Calican says, looking from me to the ropes and back to me regretfully. "I-" He hesitates, thinking about something. Probably how much he loves me. He mutters something that sounds a lot like "I hope you're happy Keya" and then turns back to me. "Look, we have to get out of here. Let's head down one of the ropes and then get under the cover of the forest."

I smile at him. He's just _so_ adorable sometimes! "Cally, you're very sweet, but I need to get my weapon, okay? Don't worry, I won't let anyone hurt you, you're just going to be alone for a few seconds," I finish slowly. Okay, so my dream man isn't as brave and courageous as I thought, but who knows? Maybe playing the knight in shining armor will be fun while Calican can take over the role of damsel in distress.

"Devera, neither of us are up for a fight against the Careers," he hisses quickly. "We need to get away while we still can."

"Get away from who?"

Calican freezes as a new voice reaches us and looks behind me, eyes widening in fear. I follow his gaze, turning until I find myself staring up into the eyes of the girl from District 4. "I guess that's a silly question," she says, holding her axe casually by her side. She smiles wickedly at us. "Who else would you want to get away from?"

Before I realise it, Calican's grabbed by hand and is pulling me away from this new tribute as fast as possible. I glance behind me to see her laughing, not even bothering trying to run after us, just slowly walking our way. Suddenly Calican jerks to a stop and I nearly slam into him, a move that would have sent us both over the edge of the tower. "Get down the rope, hurry!" he says, pushing me forwards and looking back at the Career, who's still walking casually, her eyes trained on us the entire time. "We might be able to make it a safe distance down before she gets here."

I stare at my district partner, seeing the fear in his eyes. And of course, part of me realises that I should be afraid as well. After all, one of the most vicious tributes in these Games is heading straight for us. But I never went into the Games worrying about death and I won't be starting now. After all, I've got Calican to protect me. But he's just as afraid, just as uncertain as all the other kids here. What if he can't protect me? And . . . what if I don't want him to die? I never knew him personally before the Games, but I've heard countless stories from Keya about her, him, Poe and Kastler and all their wild and crazy adventures. And then of course, I knew him through our week at the Capitol and found that he was everything she'd said; kind, smart, responsible, caring. _No Devera, _I think to myself. _You're not supposed to actually fall for the guy._

All during the Capitol week my plans have been the same; find some guy who loves me immensely (Calican), allow him to sacrifice himself for me in the arena and then go home to find some equally, if not more attractive guy and marry him as a Victor of the Hunger Games. But I kind of like Calican. And I don't think that I could be the cause of his death.

So instead of climbing down and letting him fight off Meredith himself, I push him over the edge of the tower. But as I expected, he's strong and smart, and manages to grab the rope before he can hit the ground. It looks like it hurt his arms pretty badly to do that but at least he's alive. And half-way down the tower; so out of harm's way.

I turn to Meredith, whose closer now and without warning leap on her. Even she didn't expect me to become a furious little ball of energy, clawing with my fingernails and pounding her with my small fists, doing bits of damage even without a staff. Inevitably though, she pushes me off, her face no longer smiling as she holds me by the collar of my grey shirt. The axe lies abandoned on the ground behind her and I wait for her to pick it up, but she just holds me over the edge of the tower. "Let's see you fly now, Goose Girl," she sneers, and without warning, tosses me over the edge.

A shout goes up, maybe from Calican but I can't tell, the wind is rushing through my ears too fast. I grasp around frantically, trying to find something to hold onto, but Meredith is strong and she threw me pretty far from the edge of the tower. Too far to save myself.

So that's it then. My entire victory plan ruined because I fell for the guy. And now I'm falling to my doom. I guess that's got a bitter sense of irony to it. I nearly laugh. Well, this is it, Devera. Calican's safe, but you're dead. Way to go.

_But you can never really get rid of me_, I think, smiling to myself. That District 4 girl was pretty stupid. Throwing me over the edge . . . like that'll work. Because I am the Goose Girl. And geese don't fall. My smile widens and I stretch my arms out, the grey material of my shirt flapping wildly, like wings. You can't get rid of me. And just as part of me registers a crashing, bone-breaking impact, I close my eyes and finally, I fly.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer<strong>

I never meant to ally with Devera in the first place. Sure, an alliance would have been nice, but she would definitely not have been my first choice. Still, she's Keya's sister and it's pretty much my duty to look after her.

I didn't know what to think when she pushed me over the edge. She's done with me, she's a tad insane, she's just really, _really_ clumsy; could really have been any of these things. But while I hang onto the rope, resting my arms that felt as though they'd just been jerked out of their sockets and I look up to see Devera dangling over the edge of the tower, held by that evil girl from District 4, I knew why she'd done it. She'd saved me; I don't know why, but she'd helped me get away from a painful death at the hands of a Career. And in that moment I finally began to genuinely appreciate Devera. And then Meredith lets go and she begins to fall.

"No!" I shout, swinging the rope wildly in an effort to grab her, to reach her, to do _something_, but the Career threw her too far and she's lost to me. I stare in horror as she crashes to the ground, wanting to look away but not being able to. She can't be gone. She can't be.

I nearly jump out of my skin as the rope I hold spins wildly. Looking upwards I see Meredith give me a wave before continuing in her attempt to saw through the sturdy cord, literally cutting my life line away. Something inside of me hardens and I begin to slide down the rope as fast as I can, ignoring the burning sensation in my hands; whatever happens, she will _not_ kill us both. Not on my watch.

In the end I fall for all of ten inches when the rope finally cuts through. I look up to see a prominent frown on her face, visible from all the way up here, but she disappears from the edge soon. I guess I'm not important enough to chase.

I look around and sure enough, there lies Devera only a few feet away from me. I can feel the tears springing to my eyes and resist the urge to look away or throw up or both. This is my district partner, my friend's sister and the one person who pretty much ended up saving my life. She deserves to have my full attention at least once, since I never really gave it to her while she was alive.

Slowly I walk towards her and now the tears are freely rolling down my cheeks as I glimpse the broken, mangled bones, the blood oozing out of her shattered body and pooling around her cracked skull. A small sob escapes my lips as I realise that despite the mangled condition of her body, her eyes are closed almost peacefully, her mouth tilted up in what might be considered a smile. That's what really breaks me.

For awhile, I just sit there and sob next to Devera's broken body. I've failed her and my friends as well. Keya could never forgive me for this; maybe over time she could if I had just come out of the arena doing my very best to protect her sister, but I didn't. In fact, I was the one who ultimately got her killed. And now she's gone forever.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

I stare in horror as I watch the District 2 girl pull her sword out of the District 9 boy's stomach. He chokes, blood bubbling up from his mouth as he tries to say something unintelligible, his hands clutching his stomach as he tries to keep himself from bleeding out. Or maybe he just likes the colour; he always seemed slightly off.

Rhine wipes her sword and turns to me with an evil grin. "So, Catherine, was it? Little Catherine. How does it feel to finally be in the arena?"

I swallow hard and look around, but there's no escape; I'm right up against the edge of the tower, and one step backwards would equal my downfall. Literally.

She notices my frantic glances and laughs. "There's really only one way out of this situation little Catherine." She raises her sword. "I can show it to you, if you'd like."

Without warning, she lunges at me and my brain is ignored as instinct takes over and I step back to avoid it. _Not that way!_ My thoughts scream in my head. _Not that way!_

But despite my efforts to regain my balance, my arms cart wheeling madly but uselessly. I'm going over the edge. Rhine just watches, smirking as I fall almost in slow motion over the tower and begin the long descent to the cold, hard ground. Just like in my nightmare. Only this time, it's a reality.

Screaming, I desperately try and grab onto something, anything that could stop my fall. That boy managed to do it. Dylian, the one from 11, he was right next to me and I watched him jump and yet, live. So I should be able to do it too. I should, I should . . .

There! Rough, scratchy material that could only be the rope. My fingers curl frantically around it, latching me on to the one thing that might be able to save my life. My whole body wrenches upwards as my plummet stops, my arms burning so much that I almost let go again. And yet, at the same time, I'm laughing. I can't quite understand why; the adrenaline rush maybe? The fact that I just survived death at the hands of a Career against all odds? But it's not over yet. I glance upwards, certain that I'll see Rhine sneering at me as she saws the rope as yet another attempt to kill me, but no one's there. She must have gotten occupied with some other tribute. Or she didn't bother to check that I was dead.

I begin to finish my descent down the tower, thankfully a much slower rate than it used to be. I land firmly onto the hardly packed soil, the forest right behind me and stare up at the tower, smiling slightly. _The bigger they are, the harder they fall,_ I think to myself as I turn to leave the Cornucopia behind. _Good thing you think I'm 'little' Rhine, or I might have actually died there._

* * *

><p><strong>Malia Endal, District 12 Female<strong>

"Hold still, I need to bandage this."

"We have to keep moving or we'll be found and killed."

"Relax, no one's going to find us! We're all spreading out in different directions."

"Then mutts will, or something. We have to keep moving."

I frown at Noah, but he's pretty stubborn and I can see there's no way he'll be letting me wrap up the gash he got from the District 2 male unless I can somehow do it while we walk. Well, I've tried that up to this point, and it really doesn't work. Of course, knowing the slightest thing about medicine might help. I sigh; wish one of us had been born in District 6.

We continue our walk, not really knowing where we're going but in all honesty, anywhere away from that tower is fine by me. The trees here are pretty thick and though at first glance from the top of the tower it looked just like the woods outside of District 12, now that we're in the forest I can see that I was wrong. I can't put my finger on it, but something's not right about this place. The leaves are too green, the animals look non-dangerous and the whole place almost seems to sparkle in the sunlight. But despite its deceiving appearance, there's something darker and more sinister that hides here. Something that just chills me to the bone. I shiver unconsciously; and to think, we're going to have to spend the night in here.

_BOOM!_

I gasp and nearly jump out of my skin, whirling around and looking for the source of the noise before realising that it's just a cannon. No, not just a cannon; a symbol, a representation of a child's life that was lost today. The thought makes me almost feel sick.

_BOOM!_

I glance at Noah, wondering what his reaction is to this, but of course he's just, well, Noah. Stony faced, no emotion showing, although one eyebrow is raised in surprise. Together we wait in the silence of the woods for the rest of the shots.

Three more times the cannon fires, three more tributes forever lost to the world. That makes five in all. I guess tonight, we'll find out who they were. Our eyes meet and though no words are spoken, we start walking again, faster than before to the point where it's almost a slow jog. The bloodbath is over; now the Games have truly begun.


	27. The Kill List

**_After the long, long bloodbath chapters, I decided to give you guys a tiny bit of a break with this one. So it's nice and short. Mostly I just wanted to get it out so that I could remind you guys to vote on the new poll on my profile for who your favourite tributes are. The results may be the difference between a tributes life and death, so definitely cast your vote!_**

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><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

I listen for more cannons, absentmindedly wiping the blood off of one of my knives as I do so, but no more loud booms can be heard. _Five then, _I think to myself. _Five tributes gone._

I don't know who they all were, but I can see some remains from where I stand. A few feet away from where I stand is the bloody corpse of what looks like the girl from 11; I shudder and turn away from her massacred remains. No doubt the work of one of my allies. Sure, I'm with the Careers, but that doesn't mean I have to _enjoy _what they do.

Still, if it'll get me home, I guess it's for the best. Sticking the newly cleaned knife into my belt, I catch a glimpse of Cordelia walking around the Cornucopia and jog ahead to join her. Before long, the image of my group of allies comes into view. Perrin, Meredith, Rhine, Cordelia . . . so we all survived. Wait, that's all of us from the actual Career districts. So where are Rowan and Janaff?

I join with the group, just in time to receive the patronising smirk Rhine sends my way. As per usual, I respond with a glare. Sooner or later, this arena isn't going to be big enough for the both of us.

"Alright, out with it," Meredith demands. "Who killed who?"

"Where are the others?" Cordelia asks, speaking my own thoughts aloud. "Are they . . ."

"Dead?" Meredith asks with a smile. "No, not quite." I swear I could have heard an implied "unfortunately" that followed her sentence.

Cordelia waits for further explanation, but Meredith's never really been one for just sitting around and chatting, so Perrin speaks up. "They're around the other side of the Cornucopia. Rowan got injured and Janaff said something about cauterising the wound so he won't die of blood loss."

"Waste of matches if you ask me," Rhine adds, and sure enough I can see the thin trickle of smoke floating up over top of the golden horn. I guess we don't exactly have to worry about giving our position away to anyone. They all know where we are; they're just too afraid to try anything.

"Anyways," says Meredith, always trying to bring the subject back around to the Games. "Death toll. Who was it?"

"Boy from Nine and little Catherine from 6," Rhine says, her smirk becoming more prominent as she tells her accomplishments. Two people killed; I hate to admit it, but she's pretty good. I didn't manage to get anyone. I swallow hard, wondering what the consequences for that might be. Would Meredith kick me out of the pack?

Our female leader looks around at the rest of us, but no one else speaks up. "Really?" she says. "None of you got _anyone?_"

The derision in her voice worries me, but at the same time the fact that neither Perrin nor Cordelia managed to kill anyone relieves me slightly. She can't kick us all out of the pack, especially not her co-leader. "I injured the boy from 10," Cordelia says, shifting the quiver across her back slightly.

Meredith sighs. "Well, it's a start." She glances at me and Perrin. "Did you two even do anything?"

"I managed to wound the boy from 12," I say quickly, trying to wipe the superior smirk off of Rhine's face as she realises that she killed two people and I didn't get anyone. We may be tentative allies for now, but these Games have become as much a competition between us as a race to get home.

We all turn to Perrin, the only one of us to not have spoken up. "I was a bit busy fighting Achilles," he says, seemingly annoyed that we expect him to have done something. But he is, after all, one of our leaders. "I might have managed to injure him slightly."

Meredith looks at him, thinking over what he said and I start to get the ridiculous idea that she's going to punish him, or something stupid like that. It seems like he did the least amount of damage; then again, Achilles has got to be one of our toughest opponents. I wouldn't have been able to face him without getting killed, and neither could Cordelia or Rhine. Meredith seems to take this into account, because when she speaks it isn't with the harsh tone I thought she'd be using. "Good job then. Any sort of weakening of our number one target is going to help us in the long run."

"Number one target?" Cordelia asks.

"Obviously. After all, if he thinks he's so high and mighty that he can just waltz away from the Careers like he doesn't need us, he deserves to be brought back to reality, don't you think?" Meredith grins. "He's first on our kill list."

"We have a kill list?" I say, surprised. Of course, it's Rhine who answers me, even though she probably has about as much idea of this new development as I do.

"You do realise that we should be organised, don't you Code?" She says, really slowly like she's talking to a small child. "Organisation is _good_. Can't just rely on chance and fate, now can we?"

"Look, I've just about-"

"_Enough_," Meredith says, rubbing her temples. "You two are giving me a headache and frankly, you don't want to see me angry." Her eyes glint dangerously as she watches the two of us and immediately, we both fall silent. Absolutely, under no circumstances, do I want to see this deadly killer angry. Especially not at me. "So, if we could get back to the matter at hand," she adds, turning her steely gaze away from my district partner and I. "We still have one dead tribute missing."

"One?" Perrin asks. "As far as we've heard, Rhine's killed two tributes and that's it."

"Perrin, must you even ask?" Meredith says, shoving him on the arm. "I've killed the girls from 10 and 11. Hence the missing dead tribute." So she was responsible for the carnage I'd seen at the end of the bloodbath. Figures.

"Rowan probably took care of the last one," I say to myself, but it's loud enough that everyone hears. "What?" I ask, as they turn to me. "It's probably true."

Meredith nods slowly. "Alright then." She claps her hands together. "Let's go see who else is dead, shall we?"

Following her lead, we head to the other side of the Cornucopia. Rhine walks right behind the leaders, causing me to hang back with Cordelia to avoid any further fight that might aggravate Meredith. I glance over at my youngest ally to see a very uncommon troubled look in her usually cheery eyes. "What's up?"

"Huh?" I seem to have startled her out of a reverie and she turns to me. "Oh, nothing." She shrugs and plasters a smile back onto her face, but the worried look doesn't go away. _Of course not, _I think, as it hits me. Her district partner is number one on our little "kill list." That must be hard; after all, they spent a week getting to know each other in the Capitol. Heck, maybe they even knew each other beforehand. _But it shouldn't be too difficult,_ I think. _After all, Rhine and I wouldn't hesitate to kill each other. _But the thought doesn't last as a smaller voice inside my mind calls out, _Maybe all district partner relationships aren't as bad as yours and Rhine's. After all, there's bound to be better ones out there._

"What's that smell?" This time it's Cordelia who jerks me out of my thoughts and I turn to see her wrinkling her small nose in disgust.

I frown and sniff the air too, only to wish I hadn't as the unpleasant scent comes rushing at me, threatening to make me throw up. "Oh man, what is that?" I ask, rather redundantly as she's already proven that she doesn't know. But Meredith seems to notice our discomfort and turns to us, her shark-like grin still present on her face.

"What's the matter? Don't you two just _love_ the scent of burning flesh in the morning?"

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

"What he hit was probably something like a major artery. If we don't cauterise it, you'll eventually bleed out and-"

"Listen, I don't give a crap what you're saying so just do it already."

I sigh slightly; of course there's no use bothering to try and explain it to Rowan. I can't believe I got roped into this though; seeing the bloody stump where his hand used to be once was enough to nearly make me puke. But now having to heal it . . . I attempt to repress a shudder and concentrate on trying to light the fire using empty crates from the Cornucopia as wood. I'm kicking myself for not spending more time at the fire station during training; thankfully there were matches in the supplies though, or there'd be no chance of me ever managing to light this thing.

Finally, the match's fire seems to catch on, and I quickly get down and blow on the tiny blaze, trying to feed it enough oxygen to grow. Sure enough, it begins to eat away hungrily at the dry tinder until the entire pile goes up in smoke, orange and red tongues of flame licking the wood in their search for more things to burn. One nearly touches me and I recoil at the heat, landing on my back and scrambling away from the blaze. I've never been all that fond of fire; it's too hungry, too uncontrollable. Goodness knows my grandfather and I have had enough nightmares about what might happen if the library ever went up in flames. The place would burn faster than any forest in District 7.

Speaking of 7 . . . I turn my head to glance at my ally. His normally flushed skin is getting paler by the second as more blood oozes its way out of his arm, his jaw clenched tightly in an attempt to keep the pain under control. "So what now?" he managed to say through gritted teeth.

"I don't know," I say, turning quickly away from him as my gaze lands once more upon his mangled arm. "It's not exactly like I've done this before." I sigh and try to compose myself. "All I know it that a good way to stop the bleeding is to burn the wound."

"So let me get this straight," he says, trying to hold in a gasp of pain and not entirely succeeding. "You want me to put my arm in there." He gestures to the fire with his remaining hand and I gulp.

"Yes."

He stares at me for a second and I'm shocked to see his dark brown eyes, normally so full of rage and hate now looking so . . . tortured. For the first time I manage to hold his gaze and he steels himself, then shoves the stump into the fire.

Say what you will about Rowan; he's bloodthirsty, probably insane and an all around terrifying, evil person, but he's no coward. Not one scream can be heard from him, though there are plenty of grimaces and gasps, as well as the occasional groan of pain. All of these I try to tune out. _Don't think about it Janaff. Don't think about the fact that there's some guy right next to you burning his flesh; don't think about the blackening skin, the awful, disgusting smell of . . ._

"Okay, okay, stop!" I nearly shout. It has to be done now. I grab the white roll of bandages we found in the medical supplies that were left at the Cornucopia and steel myself for what I have to do next. "I'll wrap it up now."

Surprisingly, my stomach nearly lasts throughout the whole ordeal. I manage to wrap the white cloth around numerous times without looking at the burn; it's only when I have to pin it down that I catch a glimpse of the gleaming red flesh, blackened nearer to the stump. That and the smell send me over the edge; muttering a quick apology to Rowan I turn and heave the contents of my stomach onto the tower roof, mostly just glad that I don't have to look at his arm anymore.

"Feeling a wee bit sick, are we Janaff?"

I don't need to turn to see who the speaker is; of course, who else would it be but Rhine? Instead of dignifying her question with an answer, I just concentrate on trying to keep the rest of my breakfast that morning down, although from the looks of it not much more is left.

Someone hands me a small canister of water and I take it gratefully, swallowing the contents in one go as I attempt to clear the stinging stomach acid from my throat. "Thanks," I say, my voice rather hoarse as I hand it back to Perrin, who takes it without a word. It doesn't seem like I'm the only one feeling ill at the sight of Rowan's injury; both Cordelia and Code are wearing barely concealed faces of disgust as they try not to breathe in the smell of burnt skin and even Rhine is looking mildly sick, despite what she said earlier. Meredith is the only one who seems to be completely fine with the events, plopping herself down right next to Rowan and analysing the bandaging.

"So it won't be bleeding anymore?"

It takes me a little while to realise that the question is aimed at me and I shake my head, still refusing to look at the wound. "I don't think so."

"Good. Now, we have more pressing matters to attend to," she says, like it's no big deal that someone's hand was just chopped off and burnt. Any other time, Rowan would have probably made some sort of snide remark, but currently he seems to just be intent on trying to hold the pain in, eyes closed and teeth clenched so tightly I begin to wonder if they'll break. "We're missing one person who died in the bloodbath. Seems pretty obvious Janaff didn't kill anyone." She throws me condescending look but I couldn't care less at the moment. "So we assumed it would be you. Kill anyone in the bloodbath?"

"Girl from 3," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "And the girl from 9 should be dead too."

"That can't be right," Perrin says sharply and I notice him tense slightly at the mention of the girl from 9. "Only five cannons fired, so only five tributes are dead. Rhine killed the boy from 9 and girl from 6, Meredith got the girls from 10 and 11 and you got the ones from 3 and 9. One of them must be still alive."

"Two," I mutter and Perrin glances at me. "Anyone take care of the boy from 3?"

I gesture behind me to where the body of the boy still lays, face down so that the fatal wound on his back is showing. "Huh," Meredith says. "Guess one of you is wrong then."

"And you're not?" Even in his current state, I guess Rowan's snarky attitude isn't entirely gone.

Meredith laughs. "Please. Those two girls are dead for sure. So it appears we have a problem."

"We'll figure it out tonight," Code says. "When they show the faces in the sky."

"Hopefully there'll be more than five by the time that happens."

"What do you mean?" I ask Meredith, pleased to find that my voice sounds slightly less raspy. "More than five?"

"You don't think we're just going to let them get away, do you?" Meredith stands and brushes herself off. "Get ready everyone. Because in half an hour, we're going hunting."


	28. Playing by the Arena's Rules

_**Hello again everyone! Here is the next chapter! Originally I had another plan for the ending, but I figured I'd like to see your reactions first, leave you on a bit of a cliff-hanger, 'cause I'm evil like that :)**_

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><p><strong>Precious Blu, District 8 Female<strong>

I hike my backpack up higher on my shoulders and resist the urge to rest my tired limbs. Surprisingly, getting out of the bloodbath was easier than expected, especially considering that I was right next to the maniac from 7. Luckily for me, he seemed to have other tributes on his mind and I managed to go unnoticed as he disappeared around the other side of the Cornucopia. In fact, he was the only Career I saw during the fight. That is, if I don't count Janaff.

_I dodge a flying arrow, not knowing or caring who it comes from, and scoop up a lone backpack nearby. My time is running short, and if I want to get out of here unscathed I'd better go quickly. I pull the sack onto my shoulders and turn to leave, but just then I catch his eyes, staring at me from behind a crate in the Cornucopia. He has a knife in one hand; I've seen him during training, his throws are more or less accurate. He could kill me right now._

_The seconds draw out and neither of us makes a move, despite all the fighting going on around us. Suddenly, he moves; but not in an aggressive way, like he's getting ready to use a weapon. Just a nod, an acknowledgement of the fact that he sees me and is perfectly happy to leave me alone. And without thinking, I return the gesture._

I didn't have much time to think about what had happened between us since then; I've been a bit too busy hightailing it away from the Cornucopia to ensure that I'm not picked off by the Careers during the night. But now I allow myself to become somewhat lost in thought. What does this mean for Janaff and me? We're not friends, I wouldn't say that. Enemies was the first thing I thought of when he allied himself with the Careers, but the word no longer sticks in my mind now; I've learned that what he was doing was merely a survival tactic, nothing more. Janaff's a smart guy – smarter than me, that's for sure. Whereas every movement I make is simple and my motives are easily deduced, Janaff has more complicated, elaborate plan. But really, in the end our goal is the same: Survival.

_Maybe we could meet up at some point,_ I think as I continue to venture through the forest. I remember watching him before the private training sessions; actually, I was mostly just observing the Careers as a whole, trying to figure out how big of a threat they might be. But being my district partner, my gaze did wander to Janaff occasionally. His allies didn't seem to be very respectful of him; I can picture the girl from District 4 in my head, uttering her last words (though more of a threat really) before she went into her session. Personally, I can't imagine Janaff staying with them long; being the smart, book-loving kid that he is, he probably has some sort of intelligent, Career-killing plan up his sleeve. But maybe when he does split from them, we could ally together. The two of us could make it far. Of course, in the end he'd have to die if I was to make it back to Molly, but he knows the score. District 8 has only had one victor so far, and that was a long time ago. For the first time in a while, they have two strong competitors in the Games. Together, we really could stand a chance at winning.

The thought brings a small smile to my face, barely visible in the darkening arena. _Just hang in there Molly. I'm coming home._

After about another half an hour of walking, I decide to stop, considering it's getting so dark I can barely see my hand in front of my face. Maybe I should rest here; I've probably made it pretty far from the Cornucopia and, more importantly, the Careers. And with the lack of light it could be dangerous to . . . oh, wait, that's better. A bright light flashes on, illuminating the rest of the forest and the tree I had just been about to walk into.

Wait . . . bright light?

I whirl around, expecting Careers or another tribute or worse, but the sight that comes into view is so surprising that for a moment, all I can do is stand and stare.

A few paces away from where I stand is a small, levitating ball, glowing a somewhat nauseating shade of pink. It wanders around, hovering a few feet off of the air and making a strange tinkling sound as it moves, like metal rubbing together. And everyone once in a while, when it turns, I swear I can make out an outline of some sort of creature within the shimmering ball of light.

I squint at it, trying to blink away the dots swimming before my vision and catch a glimpse of what the creature is, my hands raised warily in case it attacks. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of another glowing orb, this time a pale, periwinkle blue. As I watch, more and more spheres of light crop up throughout the forest, and I'm just beginning to worry that I've stumbled into a Gamemaker's trap when the true purpose of the lights become clear.

Cursing under my breath, I hurry away and behind a tree, praying that the tributes I just saw outlined against the light didn't see me. There were two of them, a stockier, tall one and a shorter, slimmer one. My brain whirs into action as I try to come up with the identities of the spotted tributes and I land on a solution; it's the two from 12, Noah James and Malia Endal. Just as the thought enters my head, more try to cram their way in. The boy's score matched mine in training, but still, truth be told, he's much more impressive. And the muscles aren't just for good looks; I saw him wield a hammer in training, and even with his bare hands he could do much more damage than I ever could without a weapon. His ally I have less worries about, but even the fact that she's just present tips the odds, and not in my favour. So could I take these two in a fight? No, not when they're together and I've got nothing working for me.

I peer around the tree again, careful to try and make sure none of my black ringlets fall into view. But soon I realise that my worries are without cause and I just barely catch myself before I let out an audible sigh of relief; the little alliance is moving away from me, and not in a quick manner that suggests they saw me and are worried I'm a threat. So I wasn't caught; I let myself fall back against the tree and blow a strand of hair out of my face. Well, that's all well and good, but what now? Stay and camp here for the night, head further from the Cornucopia and the inevitable Career hunt . . . or do some hunting of my own? I take one more glance around the side of the tree and am greeted with the shadows of the tributes' retreating backs; soon, they'll be gone from my line of view. Two weeks ago, if I caught a glimpse of two people I barely knew my first instinct would most certainly _not_ be to try and kill them; heck, that thought wouldn't even cross my mind.

But I am in the Hunger Games now, and the rules in the arena are much different from those of people who live normal lives back home in the district. Each of these tributes is an obstacle, one more person blocking my path home to a life of fame and fortune with Molly, away from our terrible father. And normal rules state that in a fight against a 6'2" boy and another girl on top of that, I wouldn't stand a chance. But in the arena, with the element of surprise on my side, well, those rules say otherwise.

"So we play by the arena rules now," I whisper to myself, hitching my bag up and preparing to head off after the two tributes who have so quickly become my targets. But before I leave, I look to the sky and allow the cameras to zoom in on my face. "I'm doing this for you Molly. See you soon."

And with that, I disappear into the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Bree Hudson, District 5 Female<strong>

Wherever your life takes you, no matter how you live it out, I have one piece of advice that goes for whatever you do: If you see a floating, tinkling orb of light, do _not_, under _any_ circumstances, go anywhere near it. In fact, try to stay as far as you can.

I wince and swing my dagger through the air again, just missing the sphere as it dances away – why, oh why did the Gamemakers have to make a mutt like this so tiny? I don't know what's hiding under the cloak of light, but in addition to the burns I get as soon as the shimmering beams touch my body, little claw marks have begun to appear in various places the thing attacks as well, occasionally opening up the red blisters from the burns and making the pain intensify tenfold. The newest place of injury is my left arm, which is currently shining a very unhealthy red and still faintly sizzling from contact with the orb. I bite my lip at the pain and try to wrap it up or do something to stop the agony that rolls off of the wound in waves, but too late I realise my mistake. The sphere, seeming almost annoyed that I ignored it for even a second, weaves its way down to my leg, the skin blistering immediately on contact. A small cry escapes my lips and I jab at the thing again with my knife, but not before sharp little claws rip through the burnt skin, upgrading my pain level from torturous to nearly unbearable.

My vision darkens for a few seconds and the woods swim before me as I stumble into a tree, trying to take the pressure off of my injured leg. _Come on, don't pass out now,_ I think, struggling with all my might to keep from giving in to the cold fingers of darkness wrapping around my mind. If I do, I'll be completely at the mercy of this thing. Or worse, the Careers, when they come hunting.

My brain kicks into overdrive as panic begins to set in at the thought of the crazy murderous pack that could be out in the forest killing tributes right now and I desperately jab at the light with my dagger once more. Surprisingly, there's a small _thunk_ as my knife comes in contact with the orb and it stops floating immediately, now held in the air only by the fact that my weapon ran the thing right through. Slowly, the light dims, getting fainter and fainter until the only thing left is some sort of bizarre sprite-like creature still skewered on the end of the dagger. I was right; it was some sort of new Capitol monstrosity. The fairy mutt opens its mouth and lets out the softest sigh I've ever heard, before bursting into a small cloud of silver sparkles.

I step back and slide the knife back into my belt before slowly sliding down onto the grass, wincing with every move I make. These new mutts might be small, but they're more vicious than quite a few of the tributes in these Games, and as I take account of my wounds I realise just how bad the injuries really are. I swallow hard and look away, not wanting to see the cuts and burns, the blood slowly dripping onto the forest floor . . .

_The blood. _I nearly jump out of my skin and look down at the small pool already forming by my leg wound. It's so scarlet that it's impossible to miss, and if any of the other tributes see it, I'm dead. Forcing myself to stand, I barely pay any attention to my suffering body, my mind to busy frantically worrying about any of the kids that might happen to be nearby. But I'm jolted harshly out of my thoughts as I try to take a step and nearly collapse against the nearest tree, pain flaring up my leg so intensely that I barely manage to stifle a scream. Instead I curl into a ball and the base of the trunk, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists so tightly that tiny beads of blood erupt on my palms as my nails dig harshly into them. The wave of agony engulfs me, roaring in my ears and I can barely focus on anything else. _This is it, _I think, tears soaking from my eyes at the pain. _No one can possibly live through this amount of pain._

_Come on, Bree. _A new voice, yet one that sounds strangely familiar, speaks in my head, quiet at first, but seeming to grow more and more confident with each passing second. _You're stronger than this. You can ride it out._

I grind my teeth together as agony throbs from my leg and through my entire being again, but this time it almost seem . . . bearable. And as a second wave comes, I find myself loosening my tightened fists slightly, no longer needing the extreme pressure to take my mind off of the pain.

Slowly but surely, I manage to get the searing hurt under control, and my ragged breathing begins to return to normal as I relax against the tree. I recognise the voice now; I remember hearing it once before, at a time again when I needed it most. Right after the incident with the broken mirror, the first act of violence my mother had shown towards me (though certainly not the last). I was in a numb sort of state as I went to comfort my brother, acting as though I was some sort of machine, my movements not my own. And when he had finally managed to drift into a restless sleep, the emotionless façade had collapsed and I'd curled up in the corner of our bedroom, trembling so violently the whole bed shook. Our father was dead, our mother was gone, replaced by an evil, violent monster; in short our family was destroyed, completely gone. And I'd figured that there was no reason left to try and go on living, when the whole world around me had crumbled and fallen. But a voice, that same one that helped me now, told me to get back up on my feet, that my brother still needed me. That I was stronger than the pain.

Call it what you want, a conscience, another separate part of my brain. Heck, maybe I'm just going crazy and hearing voices. But no matter what it is, it's never failed to help me. And it's the reason that I manage to find the confidence and courage to pull myself up onto the lowest branch of the tree, wincing and cringing at the fiery pain in my various injuries but never stopping. After what feels like ages of pain-staking work, I let myself lie back on the sturdy branch, once again trying to keep the agony under control. Well, this is it – I can't manage to get myself up higher than this. If anyone comes anywhere near this area of the forest, they'll be sure to spot me; and if they don't, they'll probably end up slipping in the pool of my blood near the base of the trunk. Either way I'll be seen, and in my condition I doubt that I'll be able to fight back. But let the Careers come, with their sharp weapons and their bloodthirsty, monstrous personalities. I've had to put up with a monster for six years and I've overcome it, been stronger than the obstacles put in my way. So let them come. I'm not afraid.

* * *

><p><strong>Cordelia Schylla, District 1 Female<strong>

". . . and I have two friends at home. Well, two best friends anyways. Bree and Caspian. Weird to think that they're probably watching us right now, knowing exactly where the tributes we're hunting are, and yet they can't do anything about it." I glance over at Rhine to see what she has to say about this. She hasn't really answered any of the questions that I've asked in the past hour that we've been hunting, but surprisingly this time it seems she's about to do just that.

"You really are stupid, aren't you? You do realise that you're broadcasting our location to anyone nearby. So why don't you do something useful for a change and just _please_ shut up."

Or not.

I sigh quietly to myself and turn my attention back to the forest we're moving through. We've been avoiding the glowing lights, partly because they'll give away their location and when I threw a rock at one it pounced on the stone, reducing it to practically nothing as it burned and clawed away at it with whatever mutant powers the Capitol had given these brands of mutts.

We traipse through the woods silently and I begin to wonder how to others are doing. Our leaders split us into three teams: Code and Janaff, Rhine and I, and Perrin and Meredith. Quite a bit of bickering was done over how we were going to organise this first night of hunting. Perrin wanted to leave someone at the Cornucopia to watch the supplies while Meredith didn't want to waste anyone, and Meredith wanted to go off on her own to hunt while Perrin figured that we should work in teams at least until we get a feel for the arena and the mutts and traps within. Both District 4 tributes with very different leadership styles and both excellent Careers, though I have to say I think I prefer Perrin in terms of our boss. Meredith is just, well, she's a bit . . . terrifying.

Anyways, in the end we ended up sort of compromising (at least, as much compromising as the Careers could handle): Rowan was staying at the Cornucopia, which made him absolutely furious, but Perrin shouted him down in the end. Probably would have taken a lot longer to come to an agreement if he'd been completely fine, but after his grievous injury and the amount of pain he was put through to stop it from getting worse, he didn't have much left in him for arguing. But the menacing light that normally burns in his eyes was still present, if not intensified; I can tell that he can't wait to get his hands on the one that chopped his hand off. No, not the one; he's not just some generic tribute. It's Achilles . . . my district partner. The one I ate breakfast and dinner with over the past week, the one I stood next to during the chariot rides, sat next to as our numerous mentors argued over what approach we should take in the arena. He was always pretty silent, but he seemed to hold this certain aura of wisdom and responsibility and as much as I shouldn't admit it – considering I am allied with the alliance intent on bringing him down – there was a small part of me that looked up to him. And I certainly never pictured him being capable of chopping off someone's arm.

Then again, these are the Games. Haven't I been training to do the exact same thing my entire life? _It's different, _I think fiercely to myself. _I wouldn't try and put someone in that much agony. _Then again, how many of my arrows found their way to the hearts of the tributes, giving them a painless death? None. And now the boy from 10 has a very harsh reminder of me and what I can do permanently impeding him in the rest of the Games.

I shake my head, trying to clear it of these thoughts. What am I doing, thinking about these things? I'm a Career; I train purposely for this sort of thing! I'm here in the Games because I wanted to be and I'd better not forget it. Just because I don't like to cause people unnecessary pain doesn't mean that I shouldn't; I'm in the arena now. Here, we play by different rules.

Our walk continues in silence and Rhine's expression of pure annoyance finally begins to dissipate as she realises that I'm actually going to stop talking for now. She seemed thoroughly irritated to be paired with me for hunting; well fine, if she wants to sulk in silence, I'll let her.

Although apparently the arena has other ideas. No sooner has the thought entered my mind then the entire arena lights up as the Capitol seal flashes on the enormous screen they have hovercrafts transport and the anthem begins to play. The two of us stop in our tracks, our eyes glued to the sky. This is it; the chance to figure out who made it, and who didn't. We Careers believe seven tributes to be dead; yet there were only five cannons. So now we'll finally see what lucky two survived.

The first face to appear on the giant screen is the girl from 3. So Rowan was right about killing her; figures, I don't doubt his abilities to kill tributes off. Then there's the boy from 3, the one none of us killed. I wonder who did.

The next face to show is the boy from 9, which surprises me slightly, and I hear Rhine curse under her breath. At first I get the crazy notion that she's sorry about killing him, but then I think back to all the tributes that had supposedly died . . . seeing the boy from 9 in the air next must mean that both his district partner and the girl from 6 survived. That must be what Rhine's annoyed about.

Now that we know the two who've lived, the next faces are predictable. And sure enough, pictures of both the girls from 10 and 11 show before the sky darkens and the anthem ends. I glance at Rhine, trying to see her reaction to the little twelve year-old's survival, but she's already striding through the forest, slashing her sword at any irksome tree branches that happen to get in her way. Someone behind us, back at the Cornucopia, Rowan is probably feeling the same anger, although I doubt that he's able to contain it as much as Rhine.

I hurry to catch up to her and in the darkness of the forest, without any lights nearby, I nearly crash into my ally, not realising that she'd stopped short.

"What is it?" I ask, only to realise that as the words come out of my mouth that they're probably far too loud. The murderous look Rhine gives me confirms my thoughts, and she gestures in front of her to where a scarlet pool of blood seeps into the forest floor nearby. I catch my breath and together we scan the area for tributes before realising that what we're looking for is directly in front of us, perched on the lowest tree branch and waiting for us to make our move.

Of course, Rhine does, not missing the opportunity to throw her sword, aiming directly for the tribute's head. Her reflexes take over and she lurches back to avoid it, throwing her off balance and she comes tumbling out of the tree, the blade whizzing inches over her blonde hair. My ally doesn't break stride, running over to the tribute and grabbing her before she can make any sort of escape and she throws her onto the ground and our feet. I can barely make out any details of the tribute due to the darkness of the arena, but I'm pretty sure it's the girl from District 5, though I can't remember her name for the life of me. My hands go to my own weapon and I grab an arrow from my quiver, nocking it in the bow. This is it. This is what I've been training for my entire life. I know that all eyes in Panem must be glued to the screen right now, watching us and waiting for the outcome. My father is watching, my mother is watching, and Bree and Caspian will be too. Time to make them proud.

"Well, look who it is," Rhine sneers at the fallen girl. She still has yet to retrieve her sword, which landed off somewhere in the bushes beyond us, but she doesn't seem worried. And as I look closer, my eyes adjusting to the dimness, I begin to see why. Angry red burns and tiny, vicious claw marks cover the girl's body, the most notable wound on her leg. Immediately I'm reminded of what happened to the rock we chucked at the glowing orb, and the reason for no light in this area becomes clear; it must have attacked her, or the other way around. "Not the best place for a hiding spot, you know."

The girl doesn't dignify Rhine's comment with a response, merely glaring up at her, daring her to make her move. Which, of course, she will. Her defiance is admirable, but there's no getting out of this situation for her. When the anthem plays next, her face will be the one shining down from the sky.

"I'd love to kill you, really I would," Rhine continues saying. "But I'd do it best with a weapon. So I'll let Cordelia take care of you. After all, you want a kill, don't you?" she adds, addressing me for the first time. A small part of me is slightly annoyed at how she dishes out the orders, but she's right; I do want a kill. It'll say something about my skills; give people in the Capitol reason to cheer for me. So I nod and raise my bow.

Rhine nods. "Excellent. Well, have fun with her." She snorts. "Though it's not really like it's a challenge. This girl doesn't look like she'll last long on her own anyways." With that, Rhine turns and begins to head into the forest to retrieve her weapon, about to disappear into the shadows when the District 5 girl finally speaks. "Bree Hudson."

Rhine stops and stares at her, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"Bree Hudson," the girl says louder, trying to turn despite her condition and face Rhine. "That is my name and don't you _ever_ forget it. You're killing real people with real lives and real family back home, not just generic tributes to be picked off one by one." She holds Rhine's gaze, looking into her eyes with a powerful, determined stare. "Just thought you should be reminded of that."

Rhine remains under her scrutiny for a second longer before she gathers her wits and her usual smirk returns to her face. "Whatever," she says dismissively, and heads off into the forest.

The District 5 girl turns back to me and stares into my eyes with the same look she had before, once again daring me to take action. No, not just the District 5 girl. Bree. My mind is whirring and I barely register her intense gaze, too caught up in my own thoughts to notice. Bree.

And suddenly, it's not the injured, defiant girl tribute from District 5 sitting on the ground in front of me; it's Bree, my Bree, Bree Artello; the one I've been friends with for years. She's sitting on the earth as if she's just been thrown down, her blonde hair all in a mess as she gives me a huge grin and a thumbs up. Exactly how she looked on the day of the reapings, when she tackled that huge girl to the ground for me, giving me the chance to grab my spot in the Games. I forgot to even thank her in the goodbyes.

The image swims before my vision and I'm back in the present, staring at the wounded yet still strong tribute in front of me, eyeing me oddly as though she's not quite sure what to think. Of course she isn't; I'm a Career, a diehard, volunteered-to-be-here Career, any of the others would have killed her by now with no second thoughts. Or worse, a select few of us might have kept her alive, just intent on causing her as much pain as possible. But I can't even send my arrow flying at her; all I can do is stand frozen on the spot and watch as different people's faces flash before my eyes.

Bree Hudson, my opponent, my enemy, a daring, injured child completely at my mercy.

Bree Artello, my companion, my friend for life, cheering me on throughout the Games

Bree Hudson, my enemy.

Bree Artello, my friend.

My enemy.

My friend.

My enemy?

* * *

><p><em><strong>So, I do like to see people's reactions to these sorts of chapters, so reviews would be awesome! They may decide the fate of who lives and who dies :) And don't forget to vote on the new favourites poll on my profile!<strong>_


	29. Watch Your Step

_**Sorry for the wait for this chapter, it took a while to write, plus I've had tons of homework on top of studying for my driver's test next Friday :) Yep, as of yesterday I am now officially 16, old enough to drive! So reviews would be very awesome, like a belated brithday present :D**_

_**I also have another question to ask you guys, another reason to review as you can put your answers there :) So as I've said before, this is my first Hunger Games story to get to the Games, and I wasn't quite sure how much gore and injuries and blood and all that is acceptable or wanted by the readers. So is Rowan's gross hand thing the worst you want to read? Was it too much? Are you find with having more injuries of that magnitude? I have actually begun to make a very rough outline of this story (nothing set in stone obviously, the poll results change and help me decide who dies when, I haven't officially decided now) but I do have some plans that may involve gruesome wounds like what Rowan got and potentially slightly worse. So is that alright, or do you want nothing to do with that sort of thing? Let me know :)**_

_**As always, hope you enjoy and don't forget to vote on the poll!**_

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><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

You want to know how annoyed I feel right now? Well, picture trying to find a needle in a haystack. At night. When you can't see a _freaking_ thing.

_Where are those glowing mutts when you need them, _I think viciously as I nearly walk into yet another low hanging tree branch. Honestly, they're spread out all through the forest, giving away the location of any tributes trying to be sneaky (i.e. us Careers) but in this one spot none are present. Of course.

"You know, a little light would be nice," I say, placing my hands on my hips and staring upwards, where I'm sure hundreds of cameras are zooming in on me right now. "Your jobs are to keep us alive, aren't they?"

Well, either my sister and our other mentors aren't listening, or they're just being incredibly stubborn, because no illuminating device comes floating down attached to a silver parachute. Mind you, if it did, I'd barely be able to see it. Maybe Lura's still angry about the last night before the Games. But she's not one to hold grudges; the necklace says as much. Unconsciously, my fingers wrap around the golden chain, barely visible over top of my shirt. I've kept it hidden under my clothes, knowing that it would most likely be a subject of ridicule from the other Careers, but, as much as I don't want to admit it, it does reassure me. Somewhat.

I trudge around the trees for another minute, still in the dark and having no idea where my weapon is, and it seems as though my sister won't be helping me. _Helping me_ . . . I stop short as the thought enters my mind. Was I really just asking her for help? No, help is for losers. It's my golden rule, one of the laws I've always lived by. But in the arena, are the rules different? Lots of people change when they come into the Games; goodness knows Lura certainly transformed from a sweet little girl to a trained killer. But that's just because regular her wasn't strong enough to succeed in here; I, on the other hand, am perfectly capable.

Then again, it's getting pretty annoying stumbling around in the dark. And sponsors are a _big_ part of the Games. My head begins to hurt as the two thoughts collide, one a rule I have lived by my entire life, and the second one that might be the key to my survival. I know I must have sponsors – I'd never admit it to anyone but Lura probably did me more good in the interviews than I ever could have done for myself – so why am I not being sent anything? Because Lura knows I never accept help and doesn't want to waste a gift? No, I think it's more than that; she's waiting for me to come to the realisation that I do need help. My sister's eviller than I thought.

"Fine," I say out loud, voicing my thoughts. "Could you send a light? I . . . could use the help," I nearly spit the last part out, gritting my teeth at the things I'm being forced to say. Oh, how the people back in District 2 must be laughing now. The dark is actually good for one thing after all; it helps to hide the humiliated blush creeping up my cheeks.

But sure enough, I feel more than see the silver parachute as the material brushes across my face during its descent and I reach out a hand to catch it. It's a small black device – a flashlight – and as I click the button on a small beam of light illuminates the forest floor in front of me. I sigh in relief at this wonderful new ability to see, but before I continue searching something stops me. A feeling that there's something more Lura wants. I close my eyes, wondering briefly if I can get away without saying it, but I know that I can't. The image of my sister pops into my mind, looking at me with an eyebrow raised as though she's waiting for something. So I take a deep breath and choke out, "Thanks." There, she'd better be satisfied now, because I will _never_ be saying that again. My usual stubbornness and attitude flows back to me and I add, "You've got a nastier side, don't you, Lura?" The usual emotions flood me – annoyance, irritation and such – but there's something else present too. Almost like . . . pride. Maybe my sister isn't quite a lost cause after all, now that she's finally shown me some evidence that she can shed her kind exterior and show her true personality of enjoying putting people in humiliating situations. We're more like each other than I thought.

_Yeah right, _I think to myself, smirking as I scan the ground for my sword. _The arena may have different rules, but one thing stays the same. And that's how different Lura and I are._

With the help of the light, finding my sword is no problem and soon the familiar hilt is back in my right hand, fingers dancing over the smooth metal. I smile, the weapon reassuring me more than the necklace ever could. Now, I can fight and defend myself once more. It's only then that I realise how odd the situation is.

"Where's the cannon?" I mutter out loud. I left Cordelia with that District 5 girl, _Bree_, a while ago, she must have killed her by now. But try as I might, I can't remember a cannon ever going off. So what happened? Bree overpowered her? No, that can't be it, she was decidedly _not _in a fit state to try and fight. Most likely Cordelia's just chatting with her, finally having a captive audience to listen to her prattle on.

Cursing my luck and getting the most annoying Career for my hunting partner, I slash my way back through the trees to where I left my ally, expecting to find her sitting down and having "girl talk" with our supposed-to-be victim. However, the scene that greets my eyes is quite different.

Though I was gone for a good ten minutes, my first thought is that neither tribute has moved an inch in my absence. Bree is still staring up at Cordelia, waiting for her to make her move while the young Career is completely frozen, her bow still loaded and aiming at the other tribute's head. Her green eyes are wider than I've ever seen them, her face pale as she continues to meet Bree's gaze, and I can see by the vibrating weapon that her hands are shaking. What's wrong with her?

"Cordelia?" I ask, my voice lacking its usual harsh tone, replaced by bewildered confusion.

My words seem to startle her and she jumps, her hands releasing the bow and letting the arrow fly through the air with a piercing whistle before it lands with a _thunk _in the ground next to Bree. The District 5 tribute doesn't even flinch, but she does stare uncomprehendingly from the weapon to Cordelia and back again. My gaze, however, is completely fixated on Cordelia, who's still trembling, seemingly frozen with indecision. Then I realise; she doesn't have it in her to kill a tribute.

My attitude comes back and I groan theatrically; why must my allies be so soft? Well, I can bet that Meredith isn't going to be happy with her. I place my sword in my belt and put my hands on my hips. "Honestly Cordelia? I mean, I knew you were borderline useless, but this? You're hopeless. And dead." Yes, this may sound harsh to some, but I'm just saying it like it is. In the arena it's kill or be killed; unfortunately, my ally seems to have disregarded the former and, by default, chosen the latter.

However, she doesn't even rise to the bait, still staring at Bree, her eyes whirling with a mess of emotions, leading me to believe that she's having some sort of internal conflict with herself. Well, that's all fine and dandy, but I couldn't care less and I don't think anybody else would either. I sigh dramatically once more and my hand goes to the hilt of my sword. "Well, if you're really that pathetic, I'll take care of it. And I may have to take care of you too." Really, it'd be mercy. Who knows what Meredith would do if she heard?

Unfortunately, I got too distracted heckling Cordelia to pay attention to Bree, who secretly was wrenching the arrow beside her out of the ground to use as a weapon. Before I could even draw my sword, she leaped at me, despite her injuries, and used the last remains of her strength to slice the arrow across my leg. I let out a small noise of surprise and stumble back, unprepared for that sort of attack as blood begins to drip down my leg and seep into the fabric of my pants. It was deep, that's for sure, nearly to the bone and I quickly fumble for my sword but she seems to be quicker despite her injuries and raises the arrow to stab me again.

There's an elastic, twanging sound of a bow and then a whistling as a small projectile flies through the air and Bree's head snaps around, her momentum of her leap nearly lifting her off of the ground before she falls back onto it with a crashing finality. The blood from her leg's injury is pooled beneath her, and a small trickle nearly reaches the small puddle as the crimson liquid drips from her head, where the shaft of an arrow is seen entering deep into her skull. For a second all I can do is stare and then slowly I turn to see Cordelia, her hands raised with her bow as if she might have to attack again. But a cannon booms throughout the arena, carrying with it the message that Bree Hudson, District 5's female tribute, is dead.

For a minute the two of us just stay there, frozen, my eyes locked on Cordelia while hers never waver from the sight of the dead tribute. Then slowly, her she lowers her arms, which no longer shake despite the fact that she's still as pale as ever. But when she turns to me, it's her eyes that shock me the most. They look . . . dead. Not like Rowan's eyes, which are still alight with anger and violence, or even Meredith's, whose icy blue eyes are vacant of all emotion, much like that of a machine. No, Cordelia's just seem empty, hollow almost. You can see hints of emotions in them, but it's like watching through a veil, a curtain of barrenness descending over them so that the bearer of those eyes doesn't have to feel all of the emotions bubbling up inside of them. "One more down," she says, her tone matching her eyes, lacking any emotion though I could detect cracks in her voice, of sadness and fear. But I don't say anything, no comebacks or insults or anything. For the first time in my life, I'm speechless; the sight of my ally, so annoyingly cheerful and chatty not even half an hour ago like this, well, it's unsettling, even for me.

Cordelia turns and without hesitating marches back through the forest, leaving me with the dead body of her victim for a few moments before I get up and follow her, my mind whirring with thoughts but never once do I say them aloud. Because really, there's nothing I can say.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

My head shoots upwards as I hear the cannon's boom throughout the arena. So, someone's been killed. Of course, most people won't be able to find out who it was until tomorrow, but I have a hunch we'll know sooner, since there's almost a 100% chance that the killer was one of our allies.

I glance over at Perrin to see his reaction, but he seems impassive, if not slightly surprised. _What he should be is worried,_ I think to myself, smirking slightly. It must have been one of our allies and neither Code, Janaff or Cordelia had a kill after the bloodbath. Unless Rhine was responsible for this one, they've now gained some respect. Or rather, lost some of my disproval; I've never found another person good enough for me to respect.

I'd been hoping that I might have been able to have some sort of esteem for Perrin, and he for me, although it became clear after a while that that would not be the case. To me, he's a weak link, and I'm sure to him I seem like all sorts of things. Normally, I'd make it my personal job to eliminate anything that might drag us Careers down; but with Perrin, I don't have that urge, at least, not yet. For reasons I can't guess at, part of me is hoping that I'll still be able to get him on my side, turn him into a true, merciless Career. Unfortunately, to do that we'd need to find him some tributes to kill, which this part of the arena seems to be severely lacking at this point.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," I say softly, smiling into the dark forest. Immediately after spotting the little floating lights I realised that they were a threat – decoy mutts, meant to entrance tributes with their "pretty" exterior before lunging and attacking you. Luckily I brought along a nice supply of throwing daggers, and those little fairy things were skewered to trees before they could even take notice of us. Besides, we need the cover of darkness to work anyways.

Perrin and I continue to move quietly through the forest, but we still have yet to find any signs of tributes. I pull out another dagger as we near one more of the floating lights, ready to end its life as quickly as I murdered the others, but Perrin places a hand on my shoulder and stops me. On the ground, right in front of us, is a small puddle of blood.

I slide the dagger back into my belt and nod; seems like having a little extra light is useful after all. Soon enough, we find more splashes of blood and begin to follow the trail to where an unsuspecting tribute lies in wait, about to become our newest victim.

My pace quickens as the blood puddles grow more and more numerous – I pay little attention to where we're going, only caring that there's an injured child up ahead. And easy kill. Perrin keeps up the pace, jogging slightly behind me until we emerge into a small clearing so unlike what we've seen of the forest so far.

In the middle of the space is a giant tree. Not just giant; humongous, wider than all seven of the Careers if we stood in a line, with large, sweeping branches and hanging foliage, creating almost a canopy overhead. Perrin and I glance at each other before I point to the left of the tree and he nods; we split around the base, each of us taking a side as we search for the injured tribute. The trail of blood seemed to have vanished, but in a moment I pick it up again, watching the small droplets of scarlet that dot the ground, getting closer and closer to the tree. I smile and adjust the grip of the axe blade in my hand; kill number three for Meredith.

The blood seems to lead to nearer to the tree and as I approach I begin to see an opening at the base of the trunk, like some sort of rabbit hole, only larger. My grin widens; _so that's where you are._

What happens next is so fast that my mind can barely even process it. I'm about five feet away from the hole when I realise that it was somewhat lopsided, as if someone had stepped too close and the ground had caved out from under them. I stop immediately as the thought enters my head, but it's too late; I was too focused on the trail of blood and the excitement of taking one more tribute out that I didn't pay attention to how close to the hole I'd gotten or the subtle sounds telling me that there's someone sneaking up from behind.

I begin to whirl around but whoever it is is already upon me and a powerful kick slams into my side and sends me careening over the edge. Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I throw my knife, but it misses the District 10 boy by a mile and he takes off running back through the forest, though not before a slight smile plays on his lips. Of course, he'd be out for revenge; I did kill his district partner after all. I was under the impression that I was doing him a favour; having a little fourteen year-old hang around like that would drive anyone insane. But as usual, I seem to have missed some sort of key detail in their relationship that made them so valuable to each other. The thought that I overlooked something annoys me and my brain resolves to figure out what I missed; after all, the ultimate tribute, the perfect Career leader can't skip over something like that. But right now, I think I've have bigger issues.

My hands whip out wildly as I blindly try to find something to cling onto; dirt is falling into the hole as more of its surface collapses, which isn't making my attempt at saving myself any easier. If the edges keep crashing inwards, I won't have anything to grab a hold of. Hundreds of scenarios and ways to stop my descent come to mind, but none of them seem to work and for the first time a small part of me actually considers that this might be my downfall, both literally _and_ figuratively. Is it really going to end for me like this?

* * *

><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

As soon as Meredith is out of my line of sight, I allow myself a small moment to rest against the side of the trunk. Not so much for my body's benefit; more for my mind. I need time to think about everything that's happened.

So, first things first, the bloodbath. I didn't manage to kill anyone. Hell, I barely even managed to wound Achilles. What does that say for me as a leader? I need to step up and get a kill down, or else the Careers won't be wanting to keep me around much longer. I'm sure Meredith's already thinking of ways to get rid of me.

Then I need to find this tribute before she does; my grip tightens on the trident, the same one I'd fought Achilles with – I'd managed to pull it out after the bloodbath ended – but as soon as I think about that, I stop. Achilles; now there's another source of my troubled thoughts. The trained Career, our supposed to be leader and now Meredith's number one target on her little "kill list" spared my life. What do I do about something like that? Will I be able to take him out with a clean conscience? No, most likely not; then again, I doubt that anyone, except maybe Meredith and Rowan, could ever kill someone and not feel anything about it. But still, I accepted the fact that I'd have to kill if it meant getting back home to Sandrine and I'm fine with it. Achilles though, he's a different story. And I'd better make my decision soon – for all I know he could be the one we're tracking. His ally was terribly injured, they couldn't have made it that far. That's another problem though. Would I be able to kill Imogen too? The tribute who reminded me so much of my sister, who's got just as much to lose in these Games as I do, if not more, could I take her life? I can feel the indecision bubbling up inside of me, threatening to overflow and turn me completely insane from the uncertainty of it all.

_Try and act like more of your average Career, Perrin, _I tell myself, trying to shake all of my thoughts from my head. _Just don't think._

I smile slightly at the idea and begin to continue my search for the tribute we've been tracking when all of a sudden the earth vibrates beneath my feet and the sound of crunching and falling earth reaches my ears. My eyes narrow and I frown, before raising my trident in front of me and sprinting towards the source of the noise.

It's almost as if the earth is _swallowing_ the surface; as I reach the other side of the tree I just stop and stare at the massive pool of sinking ground near the base of the trunk. What in the world's going on? A Gamemaker trap? But why here, why now after the Capitol audience just had the excitement of watching the bloodbath? Maybe it's just something natural, some sort of thing the arena does, like having the glowing spheres of light appear during the night. I ponder the growing hole for a second longer than shrug to myself and turn to try and find Meredith, see what she thinks of this.

It's only then that my gaze lands on the deadly axe laying a little ways away from the hole. Meredith's blade. I curse and look wildly around the clearing, but she's nowhere to be found. Besides, she'd never go anywhere without one of her precious weapons. So then . . . I turn back to the sink hole, the dawning realisation of what must have happened to my ally finally hitting me. She must be down there.

I bite my lip and run a hand through my bronze coloured hair, already messy after barely a day in the arena. What am I supposed to do? Obviously I can't dive into the hole in the hopes of saving her and yes, on more than one occasion I had contemplated the necessity that eventually she would have to die, but it wasn't supposed to be so soon. An ally like Meredith, no matter how unsettling they may be, can get you far in the Games, and I don't know what the Careers will do if they find out that one of their co-leaders was just killed.

But something seems off about that statement; my eyebrows knit together as I try and think. _What the Careers will do if they find out that one of their co-leaders was just killed_ . . . Then where's the cannon? The sound of the ground collapsing is loud, but not loud enough to mask the cacophonous _boom_ that rents the arena air when a tribute dies. So what has become of my ally?

Slowly the dirt begins to stop falling until it seems like the ground has stabilised itself once more. Still, I'm cautious as I make my way over to the edge of the hole preparing myself to see my ally's broken body or an infinite space of blackness or something similar. When my eyes finally are able to see into the giant chasm though, it turns out to be none of those things. However, for some reason I'm still not surprised with the outcome.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

My ally frowns up at me from her upside-down position in the hole, her left foot caught on a thick tree root and seeming to be the only thing that's keeping her suspended over the bottom of the hole, which is riddled with deadly looking spears, though they have odd shapes for the points, almost like the symbols on playing cards. Meredith doesn't seem to care though about how close she came to dying in a horribly painful way, just continues staring up at me and waiting for some help. After one more second of enjoying the scene and trying to hold back a laugh that I would most certainly pay for later, I get down on my knees at the edge of the hole and reach out a hand.

After two or three failed attempts the two of us finally manage to get our feet both planted back on solid ground. I'm prepared to give Meredith a second to catch her breath, but of course I should know my co-leader better than that by now. As soon as she's out and attempted to dust off the majority of the dirt that clings to her tribute uniform, she turns back to me. "It was the boy from 10 that we were tracking and I'm pretty sure it was a trap set up for us. He left that way." She jabs her hand in the northern direction of the arena. "And we might still be able to nail him if we hurry."

I look at her incredulously as she picks up her discarded axe and makes to head out. You'd think that after having a near death experience, most people would want to get back to the safety of their base and not push their luck trying to continue on in the arena. But of course, not Meredith. "Let's call it a night," I say to her, also standing. She shoots a disdainful look at me but I just point to the sky. "It'll be morning soon and we need to meet back with the others. Personally I'd rather not leave five bloodthirsty teenagers alone by themselves for more than a few minutes."

She snorts. "I'm sure they can handle themselves. But these other tributes need to be taken care of. Or are you worried about having to kill someone?"

I tense inwardly, but try not to show that she got to me. "I'm just thinking about things as a leader. If you want to think about things as a crazy monster, that's fine by me."

Her eyebrow rises in surprise; I guess she hadn't expected that coming. We continue staring each other down for a second more before she laughs. "Alright Mr Big Bad Career Daddy, whatever you say." She twirls her axe around and lets it rest on her shoulder before heading off in the direction of the Cornucopia. "You coming? It is your idea after all"

I watch her for a second longer and then nod. "Yeah, I'm coming." I heft up my trident and walk away from the sink hole, my gaze on Meredith the entire time. She acts all casual now, but sooner or later, the challenge of trying to lead together is going to be too much and she's going to want to have her way. I don't know what'll happen then. But a small part of my mind is beginning to think that maybe leaving Meredith to her fate in the chasm might have been a better option after all.


	30. An Apple a Day

_**Sorry for the wait on this chapter guys, it took a looong time to write. I'm also sorry if it seems kind of off and doesn't really fit in with the mood of the Games at all. I had the idea for this chapter way back when I started the story, but it was more as a joke idea than anything else. Then I decided, "Eh, what the heck, I'll actually write it!" So sorry if the light-heartedness of this chapter kind of doesn't fit the mood of the rest, but I figured I'd give you guys all a break from the usual doom and gloom of the Hunger Games :)**_

_**On that note, don't forget to vote on the poll for your favourite characters. BEFORE THEY DIE!**_

_**Enjoy :)**_

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

Ever since we got out of the bloodbath and into the forest and arena beyond the tower, I've been repeatedly struck by how _perfect_ the arena seems. Trees with leaves so glossy they nearly shine, sky blue and serene without a cloud in sight; even those weird fairy things that appeared last night seemed beautiful, at least until we saw how they reacted when an oblivious squirrel accidentally wandered into one's path. I shudder at the memory; unlike the rest of this place, that was definitely _not _pretty.

Luckily for us, we were able to avoid them for most of the night, and the light they cast actually came in handy in terms of allowing us to see where we were going. As soon as the sun came up though, they slowly began to disappear, floating towards the trees until they seemed to somehow sink inside the bark. Probably just the Gamemakers playing more tricks on our minds.

I pull myself out of my thoughts and glance back at the small river our little alliance came across earlier this morning. Actually, river isn't the word; it's like a babbling brook, words I've never used to describe any sort of body of water before and probably will never repeat. But when you're in an arena solely based on fairytales, you start finding the need to be more, how should I say, poetic with words.

I feel a slight pang of guilt at defiling the perfect, sparkling water as it merrily makes its way downstream, but a larger part of me overrules the feeling, just wanting to wash this blood off of my face. As the thought of getting clean enters my head, all thoughts of preserving the arena's beauty are wiped away, and without further hesitation I kneel by the stream and rinse off both my blood and Ram's, watching the small scarlet stream mix in with the clear water as a few small fish swim slightly closer to the surface, curious as to what this new addition to their pond might be. After a few more minutes of intense, thorough scrubbing that may or may not have accidentally taken a layer of skin off with the blood (hey, when you have your blood as well as that of a dead person on you, you'd want to make sure it was off too), I sit back and breathe a sigh of relief. Man, I forgot what it was like to not have blood peeling off of my face. Feels _so _good.

Aside from the fact that I still have a tender bruise on my cheek, not to mention the ever-throbbing annoyance of my broken nose. None of us were quite sure how to go about healing one, but Gwen seemed to think that it was one of those things that might just heal properly on its own and since Taralo and I knew no more than she did, we decided to go with that assumption. So all I have to live with is looking like I got a couple of black eyes for the next few days; the giant bump on my nose, however, might be more permanent.

_Then again, you might not live long enough to need to worry about that. _I sit up quickly, the thought actually provoking me into moving. What was that? I keep telling myself, I need to believe that I _can_ win the Games. Or else I might as well just throw myself into the river now and have a nice, painless death rather than a torturous one at the hands of tributes like the Careers. I have to fight to win, so I can see my friends again, and my dad, and so I can punch my brother and tell him not to even try volunteering for the Games or evil, bloodthirsty tributes won't be the only ones he has to watch out for. The thought makes me smile slightly and I just allow myself a moment to rest and dream about what I could do if I actually managed to come home to District 5, before standing and heading back through the forest. Thinking about my friends and family is all well and good, but I have to keep my head in the game (or rather, Games). I've got a different sort of family in the arena, one that I should probably be heading back to at this point.

When I reach our campsite, I'm surprised to find only Taralo sitting there, pale faced as ever but seeming slightly less agitated than usual; his fingers are wrapped desperately around the odd, necklace-like thing that he has – his token, I guess. At least it seems to calm him down slightly.

"Hey," I say as I wander back into the clearing and sit down next to him. Of course, his immediate response is to jump about a foot in the air before he sees that it's just me and settles down slightly again.

"Hey," he manages to say weakly, still clutching the moth.

"Where's Gwen?"

"S-she said something about . . . finding plants. And food to eat."

I nod. Makes sense; after all, Gwen is from District 7, she'd probably know the surrounding greenery better than anyone else in our alliance. Not for the first time, I wish I'd grown up living in some other district than Five, where there might have been actual grass and trees rather than a place filled with labs and the dull, acrid scent of factory smoke. For a brief instant, I wonder if District 6 has any sort of plants in it – they do make most of the Capitol medicine after all, so they must need some herbs – but then again, Taralo probably wouldn't know.

"That's good then. I mean, we need the food, right?" I allow myself to relax onto the ground, staring up at the bright blue sky of the arena. Really, I shouldn't be letting my guard down like this, especially not in the Games, but at the same time, I think I deserve a bit of a break, especially after nearly getting killed in the bloodbath. Besides, a lot of us spread out after we ran from the Cornucopia, so the odds of running into another tribute out here are slim, let alone the Careers, who've probably decided to camp out at the tower and hunt the kids nearest them from there. We barely took a break during the night, spending all of our time trying to put as much distance between ourselves and them as possible, so we should be alright. And our injuries (well, _my _injuries I should say) could have been much worse. All in all, I'd say we're doing pretty well.

Okay, scratch that, something must be wrong with me to be feeling this optimistic while I'm in the Hunger Games. Maybe the blow to my nose rattled my brain too. After years of watching tributes in the arena on my family's television, I've pretty much concluded that happiness doesn't have a place in the arena. If I keep pushing my luck like this, something'll go wrong.

Then again, maybe a bit of joy here isn't _entirely_ out of place. I glance over at Taralo again, who still looks like he's about to have a nervous breakdown any second. Actually, something about it seems familiar . . . I wrack my brain, trying to remember what it is, until it hits me; he looks just like Basil did on the day of the reapings, albeit a bit more insanely paranoid. The thought causes a pang of longing to shoot through me; man, what I wouldn't give to be home right now. _Yeah, because wishing that you'll win is definitely going to help, _a rather sarcastic part of my brain says. _Shut up_, I think back to it furiously.

Jeez, if this talking to myself thing keeps up, I'm going to be even crazier than the kid who was from District 9. With my luck, my brain'll crack under the strain of being in the arena and I'll turn into some sort of monstrous psycho that the Capitol will end up having to kill off. Because while they absolutely _love _to watch kids killing kids, they seem to prefer their tributes sane when they do it.

I shudder at the thought of myself going nuts in this place and try to take my mind off of the idea by attempting to cheer up Taralo. Or at least, make him slightly less freaked out than usual. "So what's up?"

My ally glances at me, that worried look still constantly present in his eyes despite the fact that he knows Gwen and I won't hurt him. But this time there seems to be more in his gaze than fear and anxiety; a sort of . . . confusion, all most, which in turn confuses me until he slowly cranes his neck upwards and I realise that he's probably never had the question _what's up_ asked to him before and therefore would have no idea that it isn't meant to be taken literally. "No, I don't mean like that," I say, and his eyes refocus on me as I try to explain a social custom to someone who's probably never had a real friend to talk to before. "It means . . ." I spread out my hands widely, as though the answer is somewhere in the air where I can grab it. "Like, what are you thinking about, what's bothering you? That sort of thing."

Although now that I say it out loud, it seems like a pretty redundant question to ask. Gee, I don't know, could it be the fact that there are fifteen other tributes out here with the sole goal of trying to hunt us down and murder us? No, that couldn't _possibly_ be it.

Surprisingly though, Taralo seems like he's actually going to answer the question. "It's so . . . big," he whispers hesitantly. "And loud. It's . . . terrible."

I look at him curiously, his answer not exactly being the one I was expecting. But then again, I keep forgetting who I'm talking to; Taralo Hicken, the tribute who never set foot outside of a house in his entire life until the day of the reaping ceremony. Slowly, I take a look around the forest, trying to see it through his eyes. Must be pretty-

". . . terrifying," Taralo finishes, with a frightened glance around before putting his head in his hands. "I just . . . want to go home."

_You and all the rest of us, _I think sadly. But that's not exactly something I have to say; might as well try to make him feel better, as hard a job as it may seem. "Come on, it's not so bad here," I start, trying to smile when all of a sudden, an idea occurs to me and my face breaks into a genuine, slightly mischievous grin. "What do you miss most about home?"

"My parents."

Should have seen that one coming. That's probably the one thing that many tributes are missing the most right now; I know it's true for me. I've missed my mother every second of every day since she died; heck, I even miss my dad right now, in all his loud, obnoxious glory. But I try to push the thoughts away and concentrate on what's happening now. "Maybe, think in terms of an object. Like . . . a food. What's your favourite thing to eat?"

Taralo pauses, puzzled by the question, but thinks it over. Finally, he murmurs the answer, "Apples."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

"We never had a lot of fresh things . . ." he peters off as he glances worriedly in my direction. "Was that the wrong answer?"

I have to laugh slightly at that. "No, not at all. Actually, I could go for an apple or two myself." I look back at him, a small, mischievous glint lighting up my eyes like it used to when I was participating in some sort of harebrained scheme with Romulus and Remus. "You want one?"

He doesn't answer, just keeps staring at me in the wide-eyed way he has; maybe he thinks I'm the one who's now gone crazy. But it's worth a shot, if it'll help lighten the mood of our alliance. "I mean," I continue, looking upwards towards where I'm sure there are some hidden cameras concealed from view. "Apples are a very nutritious source of energy. And I'm pretty sure we won't happen across them growing naturally in this place." I look back at Taralo, who's still giving me a frightened glance, as though he's certain I've gone insane. Of course, I doubt anyone explained the whole idea of the Games's 'sponsoring system' to him. "Come on, please?" I turn back to where I was looking before, trying my best to put on an earnest, innocent face. "It'd help a lot. What's that old saying? An apple a day keeps death away! Or something like that." I shoot a big grin in the direction I believe the cameras are hidden and give a cheery wink. The Capitol people enjoy a show after all.

Suddenly, Taralo gasps in horror, and I whirl around, expecting to see a gigantic, monstrous tribute making its way towards us holding a bloodied weapon, but my ally's horrified gaze seems to be directed to the sky. I look up as well and catch a glimpse of what he sees, though my reaction is completely different than his.

"No, it's okay," I explain, as he looks about ready to run for it, clutching his necklace again like his life depends on it. "It's a gift! Look." I reach up to catch the basket as it floats down from the air, attached to a sleek, silver parachute, quickly unfastening it and opening the lid. My eyes alight on the contents of the sponsor gift and I have to laugh. "Taralo, look."

Falteringly, my ally makes his way over, the tenseness of his body and fright in his eyes very obviously saying that he thinks the basket might hold his worst, most horrible fears. He kneels beside me and swallows, then steels himself and glances furtively into the basket, getting ready to recoil in horror at the slightest need.

"Apples, Taralo, they actually sent them." I laugh again; I hadn't actually believed that that would work. But it seems the Capitol proved me wrong, because before us sits a basket containing at least a dozen apples. Realising that I should probably keep up my little act, I stand and look back at the camera spot, doing a little half-bow for them. "We're forever in your debt." My lips twitch again as the urge to grin returns; maybe the arena doesn't have to be all doom and gloom after all. Then I turn back to Taralo, who wears a look on his face that for once is missing its worried expression; he looks rather stunned, in fact and as he meets my gaze I actually see the corners of his mouth lifting slightly into a small smile.

"Well, don't let me stop you," I say, resuming my position cross-legged on the ground and beaming. "Let's eat!"

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

The plant is oddly shaped, almost conical, and made of thousands of little tiny green seeds. I frown at it for a second, trying to bring the name of the thing to mind but really, who cares? It's edible, I can definitely remember that.

_Thank goodness for growing up in District 7,_ I think to myself as I rip a bunch of the plant's stalks out of the ground. Of course, it wouldn't be nearly as good as living in, say, District 11, but still, having a forest right outside your backyard can really help with knowing your way around the arena in the Games.

Suddenly, there's a loud rustling coming from the bushes of plants I've just been foraging, and a small, brown streak shoots out from beneath the protection of the sprouts. I whirl around quickly, one hand already dropping the stalks as it reaches for the knife tucked into my belt; I already saw an example of how size doesn't account for viciousness when we watched the fairy mutts attack.

But it seems my worries are short-lived; just as I raise the dagger to defend myself, the blur of brown fur stops and slows a good distance away, giving me a glimpse of a very mundane, normal rabbit. I pause, my mind taking a second to register the fact that there's no threat, and inwardly I chastise inwardly; I've been far too jumpy ever since we got away from the bloodbath. Though it makes sense, I guess; not every tribute is the number one target for a raging, crazy monster.

At the thought of Rowan, I glance sharply over my shoulder, as though expecting to see his hulking form ready to attack. Every hour I feel like the arena is just trying to lull me into a sense of safety before he can pounce – a disadvantage of being so used to forests, I guess. But really, I have a right to be apprehensive; I haven't even seen Rowan once since we got into the arena, and it all feels too . . . secure. It also doesn't help that I got what was perhaps the brightest, most conspicuously coloured tribute shirt of them all. Honestly, did it have to be so white? Luckily we found that river earlier this morning – the first thing I did when I saw it was use a thick layer of mud to try and camouflage it. Screw what Heggus said about the colour helping people 'identify us'; personally, I'd rather be alive.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts of Rowan that I barely notice as the rabbit begins to hop away and as I watch it go something else makes me hesitate as well. Back at home, my mother found plenty of other substitutes for the protein that meat from animals usually supplied. But out here in the arena, well, I highly doubt that I'll find any sort of beans or soy products out here in the arena. The pine nuts I managed to find won't be able to solely support us. And I'm sure Lore and Taralo don't mind eating meat. So what does that mean about me?

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the conflicting thoughts. It's a problem, trying to choose between survival and how I've been raised for fourteen years, but one I'd rather not deal with right now. Maybe later, at some point; despite myself, I let out a huge yawn. I was up almost the entire night last night, refusing to let Lore or Taralo stay alone on watch – the former because he was still shaky from his near run-in with death, the latter because of, well, obvious reasons. Even letting our pale, frightened ally wait alone at our camp spot until Lore came back from washing his and Ram's blood off of his face was nerve-wracking enough. I could hold my own in a battle against most tributes, as could Lore, but I doubt Taralo could manage to win a fight with even little twelve year-old Catherine, let alone one of the more vicious, savage tributes. Like Rowan.

_Stop it,_ I say, gritting my teeth as I unconsciously glance back over my shoulder again. _He's with the Careers and they're based at the Cornucopia; there's no way you'd run into him out here._ I take a deep breath and try to clear all thoughts of my district partner from my mind, attempting to ignore the fact that we may not have a choice in whether we run into each other or not. Earlier this morning, we found out that Taralo actually seemed quite knowledgeable on the subject of fairytales, though he said he'd been told not to say how he knew the stories. Still, we'd figured that it'd be a useful advantage in the Games to know about what ideas might have been going through the Gamemakers' heads when they came up with the arena, so we had him tell us all about the various fairytales, especially the ones involving us. Who knew, the Gamemakers might have built certain traps specifically for certain 'characters.'

As far as we could guess using the interview costumes as a base, Lore was supposed to represent some sort of impish creature named Rumpelstiltskin (which earned him about a half an hour's worth of teasing), Taralo's stylist had dressed him to symbolise a boy from a less-known story called 'The Juniper Tree' and I was supposed to be a princess with the ridiculous name of Snow White. At the time I'd dismissed all of these fairytale things as rubbish, until I remembered how our stylists had mentioned that the costumes of Rowan and I were somehow connected, and got Taralo to admit how. Turns out my district partner is some sort of huntsman who was sent to kill my character but never did – although knowing Rowan, he'll be planning on making this story have a _much _different outcome. Which leads me to believe that eventually, the Gamemakers are going to use some sort of trap to push us together, so that one of the most anticipated fights of these Games can be put into play.

_But not until they're bored,_ I reason quickly. The Capitol usually likes to watch tributes find and kill each other without the aid of the Gamemakers and mutts. They don't bother to activate their big traps until nothing fun has happened for a while, and considering that yesterday we just had the bloodbath, plus another death later on in the night (though we still don't know who it was yet), they should still be pretty excited. _Let's just hope they stay that way._

I head back for our campsite to find Lore and Taralo and maybe finally manage to take a short nap – I'm practically dead on my feet – when a sound emanates from the spot where I left them that makes me stop in my tracks. Was that . . . laughter? In the arena? I quickly get over my surprise and shake my head in contempt, although the corners of my mouth are quirking upwards in an amused smile. Of course, leave it to Lore to be completely relaxed during the Games.

"What's going on here?" I ask as I shove my way through the bushes that conveniently rim our little clearing, concealing us for the most part. Though it doesn't really do anything to disguise us if we're being loud, something my ally seems to have forgotten.

Apparently, the appropriate response to my question is for Lore to throw something at me, because no sooner do the words leave my mouth then something small and round comes soaring through the air towards me. I catch it and frown curiously at the object. An apple? How'd they manage to find it?

"Looks like we've got ourselves a few sponsors," Lore says, grinning, and I raise my gaze until my eyes meet those of my two allies, sitting on the ground and thoroughly enjoying the fruit, while a basket lies in front of them, the lid discarded to reveal a dozen more apples sitting comfortably inside. "Isn't it great?"

I glance ruefully at the apple in my hand, then throw it back to Lore, watching as he just manages to catch it, a surprised look on his face. I sigh. "I'm allergic."

For a moment he just stares at me, confused. "What?"

I roll my eyes, allowing a tinge of exasperation to creep into my voice. "_Allergic_. It's when you can't eat a certain food because you get something called a _reaction_. It can be quite deadly."

He waves a hand dismissively. "I know what allergies are." He's silent for a bit, then raises an eyebrow, a grin reforming on his face. "But seriously; apples?"

I glare at him. "Yes, apples. Got a problem with that?"

He holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "No, no, no, of course not." There's a slight pause and then he cracks, laughing. "Okay, yeah, I do. Who's allergic to apples?"

"I am. Deal with it," I add, too tired to come up with something better to say at the moment. The exhaustion is beginning to creep up on me all at once, and if I don't lie down soon I'll just collapse. Before Lore can make any further remarks, I sit down on the hard-packed soil and continue talking. "Look, I'm going to rest for a bit, alright? I foraged a few things." I pull out the nuts and plants. "But it's not much. I'll head out to collect some more later."

Lore looks at me curiously, and he seems to understand that I'm much more exhausted than I'm letting on. "Nah, don't worry about it. Taralo and I can find something."

I shrug, suppressing another large yawn and hand him my knife; who knows what they could run into out there. "Whatever works."

He glances at me one last time, then stands, bringing our other ally with him. "Alright, well, see you in a bit." Together the two of them walk into the forest, Taralo following nervously behind Lore as they exit the clearing. I really shouldn't sleep, not when we don't have anyone guarding the camp. Almost on cue, the image of a raging Rowan pops into my head and I try to shoo it away. _Just stay alert, _I tell myself. _Stay awake._

This resolve lasts for about another minute before I fall back onto the grass and sink into a very sound, much-needed sleep.

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><p><strong>Taralo Hickin, District 6 Male<strong>

The trees are huge, standing tall and menacing as they seem to close in on me from all sides. The sky is too bright, a blazing inferno of death shining down as though at any second it could plummet towards me and turn the word into a place of fiery death. There's a flash of movement nearby, and a small animal lands on a branch nearby, but I don't let its small appearance fool me. With a beak that sharp and talons so frighteningly long, I'm sure it could kill me in a second. Drill a hole through my head, peck out my eyeballs, rip into flesh with those vicious claws.

I press myself back against the nearest tree and close my eyes, willing all of the terrifying images to leave. My hands are clenched so tightly around the moth that the knuckles are turning white and beginning to hurt, but far worse than the pain are the images of all the horrifying things that could happen to me out here. _Try and find your way back, _a small, less distraught part of my mind says, but it's completely overridden as new horrors come to mind. I thought I might be able to handle this world on my own, but it turns out I was wrong, very wrong indeed. I shouldn't have nodded when Lore asked if I would be alright to just turn around and walk back to the campsite – we'd only taken about ten steps when I'd spotted some sort of furry, terrifying creature, with beady black eyes and a long, bushy tail that looked like it could strangle me easily. We'd seen something similar last night, when Gwen and Lore had been discussing whether or not to approach the glowing orbs. And then the lights, they'd . . . they'd . . .

I put my head in my hands, trying to block out the memory and take a shaky breath. _Just focus on the present, don't think about last night or the fighting and killing before that. Forget it all. _Right, the present, just think about that. Like my current situation; terrified and alone in the forest after Lore had asked if it was alright for him to go after the creature – he seemed to think we could eat it. And like a fool, I'd nodded when he asked the question, sealing my fate to die a horrible death in this terrible, terrible place. "Is there anyone here," I croak softly. "Please . . . help . . ."

"You called?"

My eyes shoot upwards as a new voice speaks. Normally I would flinch or jump or just cower in place, but this voice, I know. And I can trust them. "Zephyr?"

He grins. "In the flesh."

I can't help but smile slightly too; all ideas of terrifying deaths seemed to disappear from my mind the moment my friend appeared. He can help me; I'm not alone after all. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"Shh, not so loud," he says, looking around worriedly. "Aren't there supposed to be all sorts of dangerous things out here?"

I tense immediately as my fears come flooding back to me. But still, they're slightly . . . muted. I should be safe, as long as he's with me. Real or not, he's helped me more times than I can count, and has to be the closest thing I ever had to a friend. No, he's not just that; he _is _my friend. "I just . . . I didn't think you'd ever come back."

"Where would you get a crazy idea like that? I'd never leave you alone when you need me. And it looks like you need me a lot right now." He smiles and I mimic the gesture, although his words sound slightly off in my head. Then where was he when those men invaded our house? Where was he when I had to endure the torture of riding in that unsafe, deadly looking vehicle in front of thousands of savages? _But that wasn't his fault, _I try to explain to myself. _You just couldn't manage to call him up at the time._

Anyways, it doesn't matter now that he wasn't there before; those things are in the past, merely terrifying memories rather than the horrifying realities they once were. What really matters is that he's here now. "So," he continues. "Are you just supposed to hide out here? What happens if something bad comes?"

"We, we have a camp spot. It's . . ." I swallow hard and motion over my shoulder. "Back there."

He glances in the direction I point to and bites his lip. "I don't know, Taralo. It looks kind of unsafe."

The odd thing is with Zephyr, he's the more cautious one out of the two of us, and when he's worried about something I somehow gain the strength to do it. Like going to the window on that awful day where this nightmare began – then again, the result of my actions were terrible consequences, so maybe I should listen to what he says. But a strange trickle of courage is flowing through me; not a lot, but enough to think that maybe I could manage the trip back to the camp spot. Funny how Zephyr seems to make me braver even though his words are so cautious. "It's only about ten steps. And Lore said he'd meet me back there."

Zephyr mutters something unintelligible under his breath and with a start I wonder if he's jealous that I have, not friends, not quite yet, but other people, _real_ people who I'm slightly comfortable with. But he shouldn't be envious; he'll always be my best, closest friend. "Come on," I say in an effort to change the subject; I don't want to make Zephyr feel left out. "I'll show you our camping spot, if you want."

He looks at me, the expression on his face clearly stating that that is the exact _opposite_ of what he wants, but I'm already turning around slowly to face the way we came, steeling myself for what is to come. But I can do it, it'll be alright. I take a deep breath and step forwards, tensing as I wait for all sorts of creatures to come at me and attack at the sudden movement in their territory. But minutes pass and as I wait longer and longer, I realise that the dangers I'm worrying about may not actually come. I look back at Zephyr and motion with my head. "See? It's alright. One step down, nine to go."

The rest of our progress back to the campsite is slow, yet steady; every step I wait less and less for the horrors to appear, and as nothing remotely evil comes at us, I gain a slight bit of courage. Maybe this place isn't as bad as I thought. Finally, we reach the campsite and I glance over at Zephyr to see him looking back at the forest incredulously, as though he can't believe we actually made it out alive. "See?" I start to say, trying to sound brave when in reality my whole being is just giddy with relief that we made out of that place alive. "It wasn't so . . ."

The sentence never finishes though as I peter off and glance at the campsite and see a figure lying on the ground, eyes closed and looking terribly still. It's Gwen; immediately panic begins to rise back in my throat and I look wildly around at Zephyr to see him staring too. No, don't freak out, maybe she's just sleeping. But I'd figured out last night that Gwen didn't _need_ sleep; while Lore and I constantly had to stop and rest (I'd never walked for so far and for so long in my life), she was always alert, on guard, never showing any signs of fatigue. At least, none that I could see. So I assumed that she was special that way, that she didn't need sleep. I thought it made sense.

But the worst is still yet to be revealed as I notice what's lying next to her; a small apple with a bite out of it. Vaguely I remember her conversation with Lore just a little while ago; I hadn't understood most of it, but the words _apples_ and _deadly_ had definitely come up. What really sets me into a frenzied panic though, is the memory of the one fairytale that had been in Summer's book. Snow White, who had nearly died when she ate the poisoned apple given to her by the evil queen. I _knew_ there was something menacing about the basket that magically seemed to float down from the sky. So if it was true, and Gwen had accidentally eaten a poisoned apple, then, then . . .

"She's going to die!" I look desperately at Zephyr. "The apple must have been poisoned!"

"Then what do we do?"

"I-I don't know. I don't know . . ." I fall to the ground next to the still body and run a hand frantically through my pale hair. What do I do? I can't let her die! But she's going to, she's going to and there's nothing I can do about it! No, wait, that can't be right. Didn't she live in the fairytale? And all at once, I gasp as the ending of the story comes back to mind. "There was a prince," I say frantically to Zephyr. "He came and saved Snow White in the story by waking her up with a kiss!" He looks at me, still uncomprehending, but I don't bother to explain further, just looking wildly around the forest. "Maybe one'll come by soon and help!"

"I thought that the fairytales were just stories."

"Yes, but . . ." I trail off, not knowing how to explain it. They are all stories, but somehow the maniacs I saw in the shining city have brought it all to life. How else could you explain the floating fairies or the large tower with the sparkling horn, or the fact that every person in the arena is like a character in the book? They must have made the stories real then, they must have. So where's the prince? I wait, but the seconds go by quickly and still no one shows, and I don't think Gwen has much time left. "Can't you do anything?" I ask Zephyr desperately.

"Me?" he says, surprised. "No, of course not! No one can see me but you, remember?"

"T-then, what'll we do?" I turn back to Gwen, still hoping that the prince will show up and kiss her and bring her back to life. Even if Lore came back right now, that might help. But the only ones at the campsite are me and Zephyr, and Zephyr's not real to anyone else. So that leaves . . .

Me.

I bite my lip at the realisation. Maybe I am the only one who can save Gwen. But will it work? And how do I do it, exactly? I wring my hands together, trying to expel some of the nervous energy that's been making me shake with worry. No, that can't be right, I can't save her. But I'm the only one. Does that mean . . . I have to try?

I swallow hard and slowly bend over, ignoring Zephyr's questions of, "What are you doing?" _Just remember how it looked in the picture of the story, _I think to myself. And how Mother and Father do it. I've seen them kiss each other on the cheek once or twice before. It must be the same principle, right? Hesitantly, my head bobs forwards and then withdraws just as quickly. Maybe I shouldn't . . . but what if she dies and it's all my fault? With that thought in mind, I steel myself once again, trying to swallow my fears, and finally lower my head until our lips brushed.

_BAM!_ Suddenly the world explodes into millions and millions of stars as pain flares up on the left side of my face and I fall backwards with a cry. The only other time I experienced agony like this was when the white-clad men broke into our house and dragged me outside. I _knew_ that something terrible like this was going to happen sooner or later. Cringing automatically at the thought of what horror might have finally attacked me, I tried to blink away the fuzzy spots darkening my view until my eyes begin to focus again, expecting to find some sort of monstrous creature standing before them. Instead, the image of a very red-faced Gwen is staring down at me, and I feel the slightest bit of relief that is quickly squashed by new fears as I realise that she must have been the one to hit me. She certainly looks mad enough to have done it.

"What the _heck_ was that?" she shouts and I flinch away at the harsh tone in her voice. Maybe it would have been better to go up against a bloodthirsty animal instead. "What sort of messed-up thoughts were you having to think _that_ was okay?"

"I-I . . ." But that's all I can manage to stammer out as I cower in the face of my ally's rage, my cheek still stinging from her punch. She glares at me with a look so forceful I wouldn't be surprised if it could cause actual pain, daring me to not explain myself. "I thought you were . . . dying."

"I was sleeping, you idiot! Did you not think to check the fact that I was _breathing_? You just see someone lying on the ground and automatically assume they're _dead_? And then you _kiss_ them?"

I gulp, words entirely failing me now, but it seems that I don't need to reply because at that moment, Lore bursts through the bushes and into the campsite and I flinch as I catch site of the knife he holds. Is he going to hurt me too? "What's wrong?" he asks hurriedly. "I heard shouting and I . . ." But he slowly stops talking as he takes in the odd scene of me cowering on the ground while Gwen stands angrily with her fists clenched, her face still a bright shade of scarlet. His eyes flit back and forth between us and his brow knits in confusion. "What's going on?"

"Ask your good-for-nothing, stupid _cretin_ of an ally," Gwen says viciously, still glaring at me.

Lore's eyes narrow further in puzzlement. "Taralo? What happened?"

I begin to wring my hands again, terrified that if I tell him he'll get angry too. But I can't _not_ tell him; that'll definitely make him furious. "I-I thought that . . . Gwen had been p-poisoned. By the apple . . ." I gesture hesitantly to the bitten fruit that had been lying close to Gwen earlier. "L-like in the story. So I tried to . . ." I attempt to continue my explanation, but no further words come out.

"The apple was probably just gnawed on by an animal, you dolt!" Gwen says, her voice still a loud yell. "What kind of idiot jumps to conclusions like that? You think I would intentionally eat something I know could kill me?"

I swallow hard; it's true, I should have known that Gwen was smarter than that. But the scariness of the situation just got to me and I couldn't calm down. Desperately, I look to Lore for help, seeing him attempting to put two and two together from what I said. Earlier this morning, I'd recounted to them all of the fairytale stories involving our characters, including the one about Snow White. Suddenly, an expression of dawning realisation crosses his features he realises what must have happened. I flinch, bracing myself for another onslaught of yelling, but then he does something extremely unexpected. He laughs.

"You mean you . . . you tried to wake Gwen up by . . ." He stops and dissolves into more peals of laughter at the idea, making me more confused and Gwen seemingly more angry, if that's possible.

"Shut up," she spits venomously as he continues to snicker. "There's absolutely nothing funny about the situation."

"I think you'll find there is," he says, a large grin on his face. "So the two of you, huh? Well, I never would have thought about you as a couple, but I guess anything goes in the arena."

Gwen contents herself with shooting him another death glare (she really seems to have perfected the skill) and scoops up the apple. "Well, I'm going to go do something _useful_ and see if I can catch anything with this bait. Since it was obviously just eaten by an _animal_," she says haughtily, turning to go stalk off into the woods.

"I thought you didn't want to catch animals," I mutter before I can stop myself, remembering her talking about it before she went off to collect the plants.

"Nah, she just wants an excuse to leave," Lore says, laughter still clearly seen in his eyes. "Playing hard to get for you, Taralo."

Gwen gives him a piercing stare and storms over. "One more word out of you about this," she says, grabbing the knife from him. "And it'll be your face people are watching in the sky tonight." With that, she swivels around and marches off into the forest.

Lore watches her go for a second then turns back to me and starts laughing all over again. "Oh, man, I wish I could have been here to see her face."

"Shh," I whisper, taking Gwen's death threat _extremely_ seriously. I had no doubts that she could, and would, kill either of us if she wanted to. "She said not to talk about it."

Lore grins. "Ah, she's gone now. So what was her expression like when-"

Suddenly, out of the forest, the apple comes sailing back through the air and hits him squarely in the back of the head just as Gwen calls out. "I can still hear you, idiot." Lore barely reacts to the impact, merely rubbing the back of his head and silently continuing to laugh.

"Now you don't have any bait," he calls back to her.

"I figure I've got enough animals to deal with right now, thank you very much."

He grins and shakes his head as we listen to the sound of her moving off into the forest. "Well, way to go, Taralo," he says, coming to sit next to me and still wearing a huge grin. "I think that quite possibly just made the whole ordeal of being reaped worth it."

I frown, still confused by his and Gwen's completely opposite reactions. Actually, everything just confuses me right now; I can feel a large, throbbing pain in my head beginning to develop along with the one that already is present on my cheek. One thing's for sure, I'm pretty positive that the real Snow White didn't react that way in the stories.

Why can't life be as simple as a fairytale?


	31. Hesitations

_**First off, sorry to everyone for the enormously long wait for this chapter! I've been so busy with piles of homework and trying not to fail school, it's insane. I really should actually be doing my science summative right now :) But I decided to try and get this chapter done first :) So here you go! Sorry if it's a bit rushed; and after reading over it I felt like the beginning of the fight seemed a bit, I don't know . . . odd. But at the same time, it kind of felt right when I was writing it. Eh, I don't know :) **_

_**Oh, and the overall results for whether or not more gore was fine was a huge majority so hurray! I can continue with my plans! And you guys get to read about more gore :)**_

_**Anyways, hope you enjoy!**_

_**EDIT: For anyone who read the chapter before I editted it, Catherine is NOT dead. That was an error on my part; I meant to say that the girl from 5 is dead, which already happened a few chapters back. Thanks to the Copy Editor's Copy Editor for pointing that out!**_

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><p><strong>Precious Blu, District 8 Female<strong>

I'm stalling, I know I am. The two tributes from District 12 have been in my line of sight for nearly a full day now, and as the sun sets the lights are going to start popping up again, most likely ruining my attempts at being sneaky. The forest's wonderful cover has helped a lot, but I'm quickly running out of options as we near the outer edges of the arena, the lush trees and vegetation slowly receding until we're on some sort of barren, rocky terrain, which might have completely ruined my attempts at tracking the pair except for the few large boulders that populate the area, giving me excellent hiding places. The two from 12 seem slightly on edge too at the lack of cover, but they're not nearly as careful as they should be. I guess they've been lulled into a safe sense of security by now, after having escaped the bloodbath and not had another run in with other tributes since.

The thought brings back the memory of a few hours ago, sometime during the afternoon when the girl, Malia, I think her name was, finally managed to convince her district partner to take a short break while she attempted to wrap up the bleeding gash that slices across his back, a wound most likely sustained during the bloodbath. Eventually though, a five minute rest stop became longer as Malia finished her work, sat down to rest and promptly fell asleep. I guess her partner, Noah, didn't have the heart to wake her, and after a valiant attempt at staying up on watch, he also began to nod off. Still, it was pretty impressive that they'd managed to stay on their feet for so long; I was used to pulling all-nighters if our father was in a really bad mood and Molly needed someone to make sure she could sleep safely, and even I only lasted for about an hour after they took their rest stop. I'd made sure to wait until a certain point where I wouldn't lose them, and when the vegetation became sparser as the forest began to end, I realised that I could take a short nap at the edge of the woods and still keep them in view, unless they decided to double back. And it'd worked, luckily. I don't know what it would have meant for me in terms of sponsors if I'd lost them.

Although, my sponsor count might not be up so high right now either, thanks to the opportunity of this afternoon. For nearly a full hour they were asleep, unguarded and totally ignorant to what was going on around them. At any point in time, I could have crept over and killed them; through strangling, maybe, or used one of their own weapons against them. Anything would have been better than sitting and staring at my oh-so-vulnerable targets for ages, debating what to do. I'd like to say that I was using my time to plan out their deaths; I certainly was sure to make it seem that way after they woke, in the hopes of not losing too many sponsors. But in reality . . . well, that wasn't the truth. I was hesitant; heck, wouldn't anyone be if they were going to try and kill someone? Who's ever lived their life completely prepared to kill two innocent strangers (other than those bloodthirsty Careers, of course)?

_Come on, Precious,_ I tell myself. _You knew what you'd have to do when you went after them. So do it!_ But I can't; taking a life, not to mention two . . . is it even worth it? Sure, it'd put me one step closer to home and Molly, but does that make the feat any less dastardly?

_Yes,_ a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, though it doesn't sound at all convinced.

I sigh and close my eyes, trying to clear my head of all the conflicting thoughts that have welled up inside of me. If I'm not one hundred percent sure that I can do this, then there's no point trying to. I'd just end up dead. But is walking away still an option? Or is there only one choice that I have to make?

Suddenly, a blast of noise echoes through the arena, but it's not the harsh, menacing sound of a cannon; it's the anthem. My eyes open quickly just in time to see the Capitol seal disappear, to be replaced by the face of the female from 5 before the sky goes dark once more. _So Janaff's fine,_ I think, but then stop short. I shouldn't be caring about Janaff, not when I know that only one of us can get home alive. _But still_, a small part of me says, more confident than the one that spoke earlier. _It's nice to know that he survived another day in the arena. Also, what about the idea to ally with him? Wouldn't that be a good thing?_ And despite all the worries and fears I've had of people ever since seeing what my father could do, I have to smile at the thought of an alliance with Janaff. It would be nice; might help to make us both feel safer in this terrifying arena.

First though, I have to focus on the problem at hand. I peer back around the boulder to catch another glimpse of the two from 12, who seem to have chosen to rest for the night and are currently setting up their little camp, their backs turned to me. Which is good, since a second later a silver parachute begins to descend, heading straight for me and pointing out my location to any tribute within a mile radius. I gasp and risk standing from my hiding spot to snatch the thing out of the air, praying that the two don't notice. It's only when I sink back behind the rock after making sure I still remained unspotted, and started to seethe at my idiotic mentor for sending me something now, of all times, when the full realisation hits me. I have a gift from a sponsor. A gift! Maybe someone up there really does think I can win.

My excitement quickly diminishes though, as I unwrap the package and just stare at the object inside. Two feet of sleek, gleaming steel, sharpening into a wicked point at one end, while a simple, golden hilt rests on the other. All in all, a beautiful sword, if it hadn't carried with it an obvious message: Do it. Now.

I swallow hard, trying not to let my indecision show. The sword must have cost a lot; it may still be early in the Games, when prices are lower, but there's no doubting the value of this weapon. That must mean that I have more than one sponsor, at least. A small shudder runs up my spine at the thought that there are even just two people back in the Capitol who believe in me enough to spend their money on such a valuable sword; they must really think that I'm a force to be reckoned with. Still, not that I should be picky in the arena, but I think I would have preferred something a little less . . . lethal. Like a blanket. Or some food. Heck, I was perfectly content with nothing. The price of this sword wasn't just paid by the Capitol citizens; I too owe something, am burdened with the heaviness of the responsibilities the weapon brings. Now, I really have no choice. Before, my reluctance to attack could have been attributed to the fact that one of my opponents managed to get a hold of a rather large and menacing hammer – trying to fight him with no weapon and that point would have been insane. But my new sponsor gift has completely destroyed that excuse. So if I left now, without killing Malia and Noah, my sponsors would be gone, and with them would go my chances of coming out of this arena alive. I can't do that to Molly. So really, this is it. There's nothing else I can do.

Even with this thought in mind, I still make no move to leave my hiding spot and seek out the pair; instead, my only action is to slowly raise the sword up near my face, so that the sharp edge of the blade is a few centimeters away from my nose. I gulp again, the reality of wickedly sharp edge soon being coated in blood etched into my mind – I'm actually going to do this. I guess it's symbolic, in a sense; were any cameras to zoom in on my face, it would look almost cut in two with the sword balanced in front of it. Half of me on the left, half of me on the right – representing my frantic, unsettled mind. Do the deed, and live with the blood of two innocent people on my hands. Or walk away, and face a life in the arena with no sponsors, ensuring my demise. Both choices result in me losing something immeasurable, something I can't go without. So what do I do?

What do I do?

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><p><strong>Noah James, District 12 Male<strong>

"We'll need some food eventually. You were much better with the snares than I was; hopefully, you'll manage to catch something."

Malia takes the twine from my hand reluctantly, but still nods. Aside from the small pack of beef jerky tucked away in the backpack we grabbed (and even that won't support us for long), we've got no food, which we'll desperately need if we're going to be able to keep our strengths up for the Games. During the training days, the two of us attempted to pick up some knowledge of snares, and it was pretty clear which of us was more skilled in that area; I, with my larger, more muscular hands, was more suited for using weapons, such as an axe or a hammer (though I'd had a bit of luck at the camouflage station). Malia, on the other hand, let her fingers dance across the materials, weaving traps that any average kid from the Seam would be proud of. So she was an obvious choice to go set some snares.

But that wasn't the only reason I wanted her to leave; since we left the forest behind and came upon this more rocky terrain, I've had the feeling that someone's been following us. I hadn't yet caught sight of them, but a small noise or glimpse of a piece of uniform fabric were more than enough to let me know that there was another tribute out there. A Career? Most likely not, or we'd have the whole pack on us. As far as I was aware, they seemed to be alone, which still left quite a few options as to who it may be. But personally, their identity really didn't matter at the moment; what I wanted to know was when they would attack.

Maybe it was stupid, sending Malia away before I attempted to confront the person. Even just having her there could tip the odds in our favour; our opponent would then have to keep track of two tributes, not one. But then again, they also had a huge advantage to begin with; by now, they'd probably figured out everything about us – our identities, the supplies and weapons we possess, whether or not we're injured. Whereas I know absolutely nothing about this mysterious shadow that's been haunting us for the past few hours now, at least.

Still, none of that answers why I want Malia gone when the inevitable fight breaks out. I guess after years of protecting Gabriel, it's become a sort of instinct. And when I look at Malia, all my memories of her survival skills and strengths vanish as I take in her short, slim demeanour, how the top of her head rests at a level about a foot shorter than mine, despite our age difference. It just makes me, I don't know . . . want to protect her too, I guess.

And then there's the fact that we got away relatively easy in the bloodbath, avoiding most confrontations except my little run-in with the boy from 2. Thankfully, neither of us has had to kill yet, something I was hoping that I'd never have to do. But when you're in the arena, you don't always have that option. I don't know how I'd feel if I had to end someone's life, but there's a part of me that's still sure I could do it, no matter how appalled the rest of me is. I just don't want Malia to have to lose that same sort of pureness and innocence. Not if I could help it.

Malia's light brown hair slowly disappears behind the rocks as she travels downhill, to our left, to find some game. Behind our campsite, the ground slopes off sharply into an intimidating cliff, overlooking the gorge below. To the right, more rocky area, though the canyon curves and cuts it off shortly. And in front is the direction we came, and also the current location of our shadow. Well, better make this quick.

_Did I really just think that? _part of me wonders in a tone not unlike horror. _Have I so willingly resigned myself to having to kill someone? _The easy answer would be yes, I'm in the arena and therefore I must live with killing. The right answer would be no, taking someone's life is morally wrong and something I should never stoop to. But the Games are neither easy nor right. So what am I supposed to do?

_Protect yourself and Malia,_ I think, trying to keep things simple. Dwelling too much on my decision would lead to complicated thoughts, moral decisions and survival instincts that would crack the boundaries of my sanity. So just make it simple; I speak little, so I should think little too. Protect our alliance; if I have to make the ultimate choice that these Games so often bring, well, I'll deal with that when it comes to it.

I turn back to the rock where I know my opponent is hiding and stretch my arms, warming up the muscles as they get ready for the fight before wrapping my hands once more around the hammer I managed to grab during the bloodbath. Though this is nothing like any sort of tool we used back in 12. There, only small hammers were used to nail things into place; the weapon I picked up more resembles a giant rectangular rock attached to a stick. But I'd handled something similar during the days dedicated to training. Hopefully that was enough.

"I know you're out there!" I call towards the rocks, and it may be my imagination, but I swear I hear someone move and the sound of my voice. "Let's get this over and done with."

For a moment, it seems as though they won't heed my words; then, a skinny, somewhat tanned teen steps out from behind one of the larger boulders. My brain whirs quickly as I try to place her . . . of course. District 8's female; Precious Blu. I size her up, glad that by the looks of it, this fight won't be hard or long, until she moves her other hand out from behind the rock and I catch a glimpse of the crucial detail that I was missing.

She's got a sword.

I tense immediately as this newfound threat comes into view; it's not that I'm worried, per se, but the stakes in this fight just shot up a lot higher. She's no longer a small, unarmed tribute I could just threaten with the hammer and make her back off; no, now she's got a weapon. Which means that we will fight. And it just might be to the death.

The two of us continue to stare and each other, making no move to continue the fight. An onlooker might think that we were just sizing up the competition. But that's not the case at all; at least, not for me. I'm hesitant, and by the look on my opponents face I'm positive that she is too. I doubt that she's had a kill under her belt yet, and of course, I certainly haven't. Though whether that statistic will be the same in a few hours remains to be seen.

I'm jolted from my thoughts as Precious moves, though it's not any sort of menacing manoeuvre that suggests she's ready to begin the fight. Instead, her mouth opens slightly, but she hesitates, closes it, then opens it again, seeming undecided as to what she should say. Really, there isn't anything _to_ say. But I've found over the course of my life that even in situations where nothing should be said, people still try and fill the awkward silence.

"I don't want to kill you."

I raise my eyebrows slightly, but really, I'm not all that surprised. Who _does_ want to kill in the Games? But unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be something we can avoid in the arena.

"But I have to get home," Precious continues. "And I'm sure you have your own reasons too. So anything you do, I won't hold against you."

So that's what she wants? Forgiveness for attempting to kill me? At first, it seems like a laughable thing to ask for, but I quickly realise that it's not. By the looks of it, one of us will leave this fight dead; the other, walking away alive but with more guilt on their shoulders than any human should have to bear. If I won, the kill I made would haunt me forever. But knowing that it was necessary, that the other didn't blame me for what I did, might help with the aftermath. So I nod. "And I won't hold anything against you."

A flicker of relief crosses Precious's face, but is quickly replaced by a more serious look. "So . . . we fight?"

I nod once more in affirmation and life my hammer. "We fight."

"Good luck."

The two of us pause, both somewhat startled by her words. The tone wasn't malicious, like how a Career might say it; they actually sounded . . . genuine. Like if you were wishing someone well in a contest, or some sort of sporting competition. Not in a game where the two of you have to fight to the death. And despite the seriousness of the situation, I almost want to smile at the strangeness of her words. "You too."

Hammer meets sword midair as both of us run and swing at each other, the reverberations of the hit vibrating through the two of us. But her weapon is lighter, and the blow my hammer dealt throws her more off balance, causing her to barely dodge as I swing again, this time aiming for her leg. Inside of me, somewhere, there's a part of my brain screaming for me to stop, but I block it out, letting survival instincts take over as the sharp blade and blunt rock attack again and again and again, our bodies weaving their ways through the rocks closer and closer to the campsite Malia and I had begun to set up. I can feel myself weakening though, the wound on my back doing nothing to help as I swing the hammer around once more. Her sword is lighter, as well as being more aerodynamic and though she may not seem as strong as I am, it takes less energy to manoeuvre her weapon than it does mine.

The blade swings in a wide arc over her head, aiming straight for my skull and I raise the hammer just in time to block the blow, both of my hands on either side of my weapon as I attempt to push away hers to ensure that my skull remains intact. With a sudden burst of strength, I shove upwards, throwing her off balance and causing her to stumble backwards. It's only then that the two of us realise how close to the edge of the cliff we've come.

Before I can even process her next attack, a trail of fire blossoms on my chest as the blade's tip digs into my flesh, creating small trickles of red that soon grow to rivers. The impeding threat of the cliff edge must have caused Precious to panic slightly, lashing out with her sword and managing to cause the first injury since our battle began. I grit my teeth as the pain begins to hit me, throbbing agony originating from my chest and flowing all through the rest of my body. But I manage to push it away long enough to try another swing with the hammer.

I'd meant for it to hit her in the head, but my aim was off due to the torturous sting of the injury; luckily though, my opponent's balance was also off thanks to her wild swing only a moment earlier. The hammer's head comes crashing into her left leg, hitting the calf squarely in the middle, and with a sickening _crunch_ she cries out and collapses to the ground, her limb now twisted in a completely unnatural position; you can even see the bloodstained tip of her bone poking through the torn flesh.

I can feel the revulsion rising in my throat, the disgust at what I just did; _I _was the one who just mutilated her like that, this girl I never knew, never even held a conversation with before. But that's how the Games work, isn't it? _So do it Noah,_ I tell myself, raising the hammer for the last, final strike. _Just do it_.

"Noah?"

* * *

><p><strong>Malia Endal, District 12 Female<strong>

In the arena, things aren't supposed to make sense. Floating balls of light, leaves too green and perfect and of course, kids being forced to kill kids. Those things don't belong in the real world. But I guess I have to realise that I'm not _in_ the real world anymore. I'm in the arena. I'm in the Games.

But still, the sight I see when I get back to our campsite shocks me to the point of paralysis. Noah and some girl I can't identify, fighting for their lives, hammer to sword. I should do something, cry out, stop them, help Noah; _something_. But I can't. All I can do is just watch in horror.

The girl swipes out at Noah, cutting him across the chest and almost instantly the blood begins to stain his shirt, scarlet liquid mingling with the brown fabric of his tribute uniform. But still, he manages to hold in the pain and in turn lashes out at the girl with his hammer, catching her on the leg. And it may just be my imagination, but I swear I can hear the _crack_ of her bone breaking from all the way back here.

My ally looks down at her, hammer positioned for the ending blow, his face grim, but determined as the girl seems to deflate in defeat. And _that's _what breaks me out of my stupor. The fact that, despite being in the Games, I still can't believe that Noah would kill someone.

"Noah?"

He freezes and whirls around, eyes widening in fear; a small part of me notes that that was probably the most amount of emotion I've ever seen in Noah's expression. But what is he afraid of? There's no menace threatening me, no chance that I could get hurt doing something. Or is he worried about what I saw, what I was about to see; him murdering a teenage girl who's guilty of nothing more than bad luck, of having her name pulled out of the reaping ball rather than anyone else's.

The two of us are so distracted by each other that we barely pay any attention to the collapsed girl on the ground; but she doesn't seem to have counted herself out yet. I'm the first to notice as she moves, lifting her sword for one final attempt at landing a hit, but my warning shout is stuck in my throat, unable to get out and let Noah know of the danger behind him. So once again I'm paralysed, powerless to do anything, as the sword plunges right into his side.

The sound that leaves his mouth is one of pure agony, a scream that seems to rip the fabric of my very soul. The only positive thing it does is snap me out of my frozen trance and without further hesitation I take off running. The girl tears her sword out of his side, looking too exhausted and in pain herself to try and land another hit, but I barely realise it, only concentrating on the threat that she once was. It's as though I'm outside of my body, watching myself as I push her away to tear the sword out of her grasp; the force I used was more than necessary, however, and it sends her teetering off-balance until she begins to fall over the edge. A panicked cry escapes her lips as her arms whip out to grab the rocky cliff, trying to hang on to the few moments of life she has left.

Slowly, I seem to come back to myself, whatever overcame me before fading as I look at the flailing girl, hanging on by the tips of her fingers. She wouldn't be able to climb up anyways; not with that broken leg of hers. And she knows it too; the look in her brown eyes as they gaze into mine tells me everything. So it's merciful then. I'm saving her from having to let go of the cliff herself. I'm being merciful.

But it doesn't feel that way, as my foot slams into her head, causing her to let go out of the shock and pain and fall. It doesn't feel that way at all. Still, I manage to walk away from the cliff and back to my wounded ally, whose breathing is shallow, sucked in through gritted teeth at the agony overtaking him. Almost in a daze, I try to wrap up the wound with the few remaining bandages we have left. And it's only afterwards, when I sit with him and push the blonde hair off of his sweaty brow, trying to make him more comfortable for the pain that is to come, that I finally succumb to everything and cry. For Noah, for the girl I just killed, and for myself. Because I don't think I'll ever be the same again.


	32. United We Stand, Divided We Fall

_**Hello again everyone! Sorry these chapters are taking so long to write; summatives haven't quite let up yet. 'Least my grammar project's done though :) Oh man, I just can't wait for summer.**_

_**There is one reason other than homework that I've been busy though. I think I've made a few announcements on here about Tears of Blood where 24 authors each write for a tribute and collaborate on one story. For that one, I wrote for the District 9 male tribute Ari. But, they just recently had tryouts for the sequel and I managed to get in! So keep you eyes open for the next 24 authors story called Bring Them to Their Knees, where I'm writing for the District 8 female Anya. Actually, I do believe a few reviewers of this story are in on it too :) **_

_**One more thing before I let you guys get on to the chapter (that is, if you even bother to read the author's notes). So I asked you a little while ago about the amount of gore and the majority or votes said more would be fine. Meaning that there will be more gore (sorry for those of you who don't like it) and this chapter is one that contains some violence. It's not a bad injury, but it's, well, descriptive. So if you don't like that sort of thing, you may want to skip Rowan's POV.**_

_**Anyways, enough of me blabbing. Enjoy the chapter!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

"_Soooo_ . . ."

Nobody reacts to my attempt at starting a conversation, other than the usual eye roll I get from Rhine. But I can't help it; the silence is unbelievably awkward. Normally amongst the Careers there wouldn't be a moment that wasn't filled with the excited chatter of Cordelia, but after she got back from our first night out Career hunting she's been, well, different.

I glance at our youngest ally now, her curly brown hair hanging down in front of her face as she picks at the roasted rabbit the four of us are eating for breakfast, not even bothering to look up. In fact, she hasn't talked or made eye-contact with anyone since she and Rhine got back from Career hunting. All we'd heard from Rhine was that Cordelia had managed to kill the girl from 5, and that was all either of them said on the subject. What had surprised me was how bluntly Rhine had given the information; not that she's not a blunt person per se, but I thought she would have twisted the story to make it seem like she'd had more of a hand in the tribute's death, or just come outright and say she'd killed the girl. After all, if Cordelia wasn't going to say anything against her story, why not? The only logical reason would be that she wanted to show that our ally had gotten a kill. But why? To make her a threat to the rest of us, so that we might decide to try and kill her off? That doesn't make sense; Rhine's gotten a kill under her belt (after seeing the faces in the sky and determining that the girl from 6 was most certainly _not_ dead, I'd felt a surge of relief at the fact that my district partner didn't have as much over me as I thought), Rowan's got one as well and Meredith has two. No way Cordelia would shine through as a threat when there are much more intimidating Careers around. So then . . . why? And as much as I try to think of another option, the only idea that occurs to me was that it was to protect Cordelia, to show Meredith that she'd gotten a kill and therefore was not useless, getting her out of the dangerous zone Perrin, Janaff and I still populated where we might get kicked out of the pack for our lack of violence.

I glance over at Rhine, who's currently sharpening her sword with a rock she found at the tower's base. She seems to feel my eyes on her and looks up, smirks then goes back to work. Well, that settles it; I'm pretty sure Rhine's not capable of feeling _any_ compassion towards anyone at all. I'll have to think up something else then.

"When do you guys think they'll come back?" I ask, yet another attempt to spark a conversation. I look at Janaff, who seems deep in thought, my eyes almost pleading for him to say something, _anything_ so that I don't have to sit in this unbearable silence anymore.

The District 8 boy shakes himself out of his reverie and glances at the sky. "It's been nearly a day now," he says, ignoring the "No,_ duh_," response he gets from Rhine. "I'm sure Meredith and Perrin are great trackers in the forest but, well, Rowan's got to be pretty good sneaking around unseen as well. Especially since he's got the advantage of growing up in District 7."

"Mm," I say in agreement. Really, there's not much I _can_ say. This whole incident has left us in a bit of a pickle and now the supposed most powerful alliance in these Games is separated chasing after its own allies and making awkward conversation at the tower.

It all started back when we were all returning from our first (and only) night of hunting. Janaff and I had had a relatively uneventful time of it, eventually coming to the conclusion that all of the tributes had scattered too far during the time it'd taken us to prepare to go out. He was probably only thinking aloud, but I had to agree with my ally when he'd said that if we didn't find a way to bring all of the tributes together at some point, we'd all be screwed. Because then, the Gamemakers would do it for us. And I don't even want to think about what horrors they might have up their sleeves for this bizarre, fairytale Games.

Anyways, upon returning to the base of the tower we found Cordelia and Rhine, along with Meredith and Perrin. They each recounted the stories about what had happened, though Rhine kept hers extremely short and I highly doubted that our leaders had had the uneventful time they recounted to us; the glares Meredith sent Perrin's way as he told us vaguely about them just wandering around the forest made me feel as though something must have gone on. What that something was though, was left for me to imagine, as neither seemed ready to give the information and I really didn't want to risk asking for it. I do value my life, after all.

After everyone's stories had been told, we'd all climbed back up the tower to our base camp, ready to find Rowan there doing . . . well, whatever Rowan would do to pass the time. What we found however, was nothing like that, and for a while all we could do was stare in shock. Though, looking back on it, it is _Rowan_ we're talking about. I guess it shouldn't have been all that surprising.

Our District 7 ally was gone. Not killed or his cannon would have been heard, and I highly doubt he was kidnapped (no one in their right mind would try and take him on). He was just . . . gone. Into the forest, presumably to hunt down his district partner (who we'd figured he had a long-time grudge against) or the girl he should have killed and the boy who took his hand. The idea became a conclusion when we realised that Rowan's favourite meat cleavers were taken as well. My guess is that he waited until the anthem played and the faces of those who died appeared, and when it turned out that his supposed victim (the District 9 girl) was still alive, it sent him into a rage and he vowed to find her or anyone else to sort of "redeem" himself. I figured it was pretty reasonable.

His leaving sparked some pretty bad tension between Perrin and Meredith. Neither of them was the type to come outright and just shout and argue about what had happened, but there were carefully sheathed claws behind the conversation they'd had on the subject. Anyone with half a brain could tell what the underlying messages they were sending each other were: Meredith blamed Perrin for making Rowan stay and guard the camp, Perrin blamed Meredith for bringing the psycho into our alliance in the first place. Yes, both of our leaders are very different, nearly as different as Rhine and I, and since that I've begun to wonder if eventually, just as with Rhine and me, this arena might become too small for the both of them.

Fortunately, they weren't entirely unreasonable, and had managed to resolve their differences and set off to find Rowan together. Then again, who knows what they could be doing to each other in the forest. Maybe they're down there right now, fighting to the death because of their differences. One of them could even be dead by now – since the bloodbath, there've been two cannon fires; one we know as Bree's when Cordelia killed her, but the sounded last night after the anthem played. We won't know if it was one of our allies until tonight.

"I guess all we can do is wait then," I say, mostly to myself since none of the other three seem to be in a terribly talkative mood. "Just wait."

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

The cauterisation may have stopped the wound from bleeding, but it did nothing to help the pain that still courses through me. Hell, if anything, it just _amplified_ it. But I can manage; at least, I tell myself that I can. There's no way I'm going to let an injury like this, no matter how severe, impede my abilities in the arena. If anything, the wound serves as a reminder for why I was almost excited to go into the Games: revenge. Only now my hate is aimed at multiple targets, not just Gwen. And with every wave of agony that throbs off of my bandaged stump, a name echoes in my head.

_Gwen._

Pain, shooting up my arm with no intentions of letting up anytime soon.

_Imogen._

More agony, this time worse than before, wreaking torturous havoc through my body and making me let out a low groan of agony.

_Achilles._

"Where are you?" I murmur through gritted teeth. "Come out, cowards."

Of course, no one shows up in the forest and as a new wave of torment shoots through me I feel like throwing down my knife and cursing or even demanding for something to help with the pain. They have those kind of drugs in the Capitol, drugs that could wipe out the agony, let me get some rest from it. But even as I think about it, I know that it won't happen; the price of the medicine would be enormous, and I doubt I have enough sponsors to cover it. Who knows; I might not have any sponsors at all. Maybe my interview on our last night in the Capitol scared them all off.

More pain, more short gasps as I try to hold it in, to not let it show. But I'm used to it, somewhat, and I force myself to keep trekking through the trees. However unbearable my injury is, the agony is still in second place compared to the amount of hate coursing through me right now. Hate aimed at three specific people. And I really couldn't care less which one I took care of first.

_As long as it's painful_, I think to myself, nearly smiling despite my injury. _Long and painful. And occurs as soon as possible._

All of a sudden, a small rustle in the bushes is heard; too big for a squirrel or another animal of that size, but just big enough to sound like someone trying to be sneaky. My lips twitch upwards in a smirk and I grip the handle of my cleaver more tightly. Of course, it's occurred to me that the tribute nearby might not even be one of my targets, but at this point I really couldn't care less. I just want some action; maybe causing pain to others will make me forget about my own torture.

I turn towards the bush where the noise originated, preparing to throw my knife and spear whoever hides in there, when a new sound, a voice echoes through the clearing. "Don't even think about it."

I cock my head and turn slightly to see Perrin standing behind me, trident hanging down by his side but gripped tightly, showing that he's trying to appear calm but is ready to spring into battle at a moment's notice. He looks at me coldly, and I smirk back. _Should have known this would come eventually._

While still regarding one of the two leaders, I watch out of the corner of my eye as Meredith appears from the bushes. So they both came. Did they really think that I'd be that much of a threat that they'd both be needed? I'm touched. "You could work a bit more on your sneaking," I say to her, though my smirk wavers as the expected wave of pain rolls up my arm. "Anyone could hear you coming from a mile off."

She just gives me a patronising stare. "You might want to listen to your own advice. Looked more like you were taking a casual stroll through the forest than trying to sneak up on tributes."

"You misunderstand my purpose," I say, giving her a grin that doesn't reach my eyes. "I _wanted_ tributes to find me."

"Well, here we are now," Perrin says gruffly from behind me. "So what are you going to do?"

I turn, coming to a stop fully facing him, and see that he's raised his trident slightly, just in case. But that won't be necessary. As much as I think that the Careers are a bunch of idiots, getting into a fight with them now is not what I need. "Yes, see, you two have upset my plans a bit. I was waiting for . . ._ other_ kids to show up. So you can just run along and we'll pretend this never happened."

"I don't think so," Meredith says, walking around until she stands next to Perrin, twirling a dagger expertly in her hand. Probably her attempt at seeming menacing. "We'll be dishing out the orders here. And the way I see it, you really only have one option: come back to base camp with the rest of the Careers and follow orders like a good little boy."

My smirk grows; hopefully concealing the pain that currently envelops me. I can't appear weak to these two 'leaders.' "And if I refuse?"

"Then we'll take that as you saying that you don't want to be part of the pack anymore. Which makes you just another tribute." She smiles her trademarked shark grin. "And I think you know what happens to the tributes we happen across."

"Enlighten me."

Her grin widens. "With pleasure."

She's fast, I'll give her that. The knife leaves her hand and flies through the air so quickly that I barely have time to dodge it. I swipe at her leg with my own weapon, but she jumps backwards, landing on her hands before using her arms to push herself through the air and back into a standing position, delivering a powerful blow to my chest. Already in a light-headed state from my previous injury, I lose my balance and fall, my cleaver dropping from my hand, but not before I swing my leg around to deliver my own kick to the back of her knees, causing them to buckle and making her fall right down on top of me. I don't hesitate to swing my fist, catching her right on the jaw and making her blonde hair swing wildly as her head snaps back. Desperately, my hand flies to ground, trying to find my cleaver that I dropped earlier, fingers searching for the wooden handle. Come on, come on . . .

The Career leader shakes her head slightly, as though clearing it from the concussive hit she just took from me and doesn't hesitate to land jab two of her fingers straight into my solar plexus. Uncomfortable, to say the least. Deep, wracking coughs leave my lips and she pulls back her hand to land another blow; fortunately though, I'm not out of ideas yet. My leg jerks up behind her, my knee hitting her squarely in the back and it's her turn to be out of breath as she falls from her sitting position on my stomach. Our faces end up inches from each other, my smirk meeting her glare head on, and I'm about to lift my arm to push her off when the fingers of my only hand left brush against something familiar. Was that-?

Too late, I realise that allowing myself to get distracted was a very bad thing. In an instant, Meredith's glare turns into a grin and she sits up as her arms stretches out to grab mine, almost as if she was looking to hold hands. The only problem being that the limb she's reaching for no longer as a hand attached. Our gazes meet again and as I stare into her eyes my own widen; what she's about to do is written all over her face. I struggle with my good arm but unfortunately, she's got the advantage by having me outnumbered two hands to one; her left slams onto my right, keeping it down while her other hand moves dangerously close to my injury. My heart begins to pound faster but I hold her gaze, glaring up at her with all the hate I can muster, which, knowing me, is quite a lot. But she just smirks and with a sudden burst of speed, digs her sharply pointed nails into the bloody stump of my wrist.

I can't quite keep the scream from bursting out of my lungs and into the air of the arena. The bandage does absolutely nothing to stop her claw-like hands from digging into the jagged, burnt flesh, twisting and turning the injury into a whole new level of torture. What lasts for what must have only been a minute or two feels like an eternity; an eternity in which nothing exists but searing, blinding agony and my frantic, pain-scattered thoughts of _don't scream, don't scream, don't scream_ . . .

At an achingly slow pace, the pain begins to lessen as Meredith retracts her fingers, now covered in blood that must have soaked through the bandage. The smug smirk she wears on her face proves that my goal of not screaming did not entirely work out, but at the moment I'm just trying not to pass out. The arena swims before my vision and I close my eyes, short, shallow gasps escaping from behind my gritted teeth.

"So," Meredith begins, and I open my eyes, attempting to glare at her. She's wiping the blood – _my_ blood – off of her hand with such an irritatingly casual manner that I can feel the pain in my system being joined by a feeling doubly as intense: pure, unadulterated hatred. Between my vision going dark from the agony and red from the rage, it's a wonder I can see her at all as she calmly selects another knife from her belt (she must have forgotten about it during the fight) and holds it to my throat. "Still wanting to leave the Careers? Because then this is going to get _very_ messy."

"It sure will. Take a look," I practically spit, but the hate I'm trying to convey in my tone is somewhat lost, my voice instead sounding hoarse, quiet. _Weak_.

She raises an eyebrow and follows my gaze to the meat cleaver I managed to grab in my hand. Once she let go of my other arm, I managed to manoeuvre the point dangerously close to her heart. For a moment, an expression of surprise crosses her face; but it's quickly replaced by another smirk. "Really? You think you're faster than I am?"

She digs the knife a little more into my throat, the tip drawing a few droplets of blood. But I just more the cleaver until it's right prodding her uncomfortable in the chest. "Try me."

"Stop. Stop it, both of you."

Neither of us can hide our confusion as the new voice cuts through the air, and we both turn to see Perrin rubbing his temples with his eyes closed, as though we're two misbehaving children and not murderers about to kill each other. I'd completely forgotten he was there. "We're supposed to be an _alliance_. You need to get the idea of teamwork through your head," he says, gesturing to me. "And you need to stop trying to kill someone at each and every opportunity." This last bit seems to be aimed at his co-leader, and despite the casual smirk she wears I can tell she's a bit miffed to be taking orders when her egotistical personality is telling her that she has to be the perfect Career leader and no one can tell her otherwise. "So _this_ is what we're going to do. You're both going to put down the weapons, stand up and we're all going to walk back to the rest of the alliance like this never happened. Is that clear?"

I glance at Meredith and watch as she seems to debate Perrin's words in her head; it's pretty clear what she's wondering. _No one can tell me what to do. I'm the perfect leader. Should I kill him now to make him learn his lesson? Or maybe I can keep him around and kill him later, benefit more from the alliance. But still, he's trying to tell me what to do!_

How about that? Even in my foggy, pain-filled state I can still do a pretty accurate impression of Meredith.

After some deliberation, she just shrugs casually, still wearing her smirk. "Sure, Perrin, dear. _You_'re the boss." Her district partner frowns, obviously picking up on her sarcastic tone but she just sighs dramatically and stands, pocketing her knife and heading in what I assume is the direction towards the tower, leaving Perrin to glance down at me, waiting for my answer.

"Yeah, whatever," I say through gritted teeth; maybe later I'll come up with some sort of snarky or sarcastic comeback. The co-leader of the Careers nods and offers me his hand but I bat it away with a glare and stand on my own. Though as soon as I manage to get back on my feet the whole world seems to darken and I stagger backwards into a tree. My good hand grasps one of the lower branches tightly as though it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which it pretty much is.

Perrin says nothing; at least he's smart enough to know that any attempt at offering me help would most likely result with me biting his head off. But he does pull a roll of bandages from his pocket and hold them out to me. I glare at him but he just frowns and gestures to my other arm, the bandage of which is now soaked with blood thanks to Meredith and her demon claws. My eyes narrow, thoughts running along the lines of _don't accept the help_, but I realise that if I don't stop the bleeding, I'll be too light-headed to even manage to stand, much less walk. As it is, it's a miracle I haven't fallen over yet. So I just snatch the bandages with a snarl and stalk off into the woods; at least, as much as one _can_ stalk when their vision keeps fading, pain still rolling through their body in agonising waves. Thankfully, Perrin doesn't comment on my lack of balance or the fact that I need to stop every two seconds and hold onto a tree to keep the world from spinning around me. And though my thoughts are disoriented and fragmented thanks to the pain and light-headedness, I know one thing for sure. There's just been a new addition to the list of people I'm going to kill in these Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

Pins and needles are pricking my arms, my legs have gone beneath me in their uncomfortable squatting position, but I still refuse to move, still terrified that I'm going to be spotted. But after ten minutes pass and the three Careers don't return, I allow myself to slowly relax. That was _way_ too close. I could have, _should_ have died there. Luckily they were too busy fighting amongst themselves to notice me in a tree nearby.

Shuddering at the memory of the boy, Rowan's injury, I begin my descent from the sturdy oak that acted as my perch for the past half an hour. We never really had the opportunity to learn how to climb trees back in District 6; the only green that was to be found were the small gardens hosting a variety of medicinal herbs. But I'd tried practicing during the training days and after attempting it here in the arena, I found that it wasn't all that difficult. Just place one hand over the other and don't look down; thankfully, the fact that I'm short and light gives me a lot more options as to which branches will hold me. Still, I haven't quite mastered the art of climbing silently yet and, well, like I said, it was way too close.

_And to think he didn't even know how close he was,_ I think to myself, dropping the last few feet onto the ground and heading to the campsite of an alliance I've been following for a little while now. _A few more steps into the woods and he could have killed them both._

I'm pretty certain that I know who Rowan was attempting to hunt down; unfortunately, I saw bits and pieces of his fight with Imogen and her torture, as well as the battle with Achilles before I ran off and was confronted by Rhine. I'd also seen him in training and I could guess at what a short temper he had; I was sure he wouldn't let the two escape alive for long. Luckily for them he didn't seem to okay his plan with the other Careers first.

Pretty soon, I arrive at the clearing where the two eighteen year-olds have set up camp and hide in my usual bush to peer at them. The boy, Achilles, is still trying to tend to Imogen, but I can see that her state hasn't changed much from the last time I looked in on them.

I don't know why I've been watching them for the past day or so; I haven't really done anything other than spy on their camp. After running away from the tower during the bloodbath, I happened upon Achilles and nearly died of fear that he would kill me. But he didn't even notice the little twelve year-old who nearly ran directly in his path; he was too busy trying to help his ally along and keep her out of as much pain as possible. Which was pretty hard, considering her state. I found it, I don't know, intriguing maybe that he was going through so much effort to help her when it would only slow him down and make them a bigger target, ultimately lowering his odds of getting home alive. But I liked it, the idea that not every alliance in the Games had to be as cruel and untrusting as the Careers, who (as just demonstrated) would turn on each other in a second if they felt like it. So I watched them from a distance and wondered what their strategy for getting home could possibly be. Then again, I have no idea how I'll be getting home either. The idea of killing someone isn't just abhorrent, but laughable as well; I'm the youngest tribute in the Games, as well as the smallest – not a person you'd bet on in a fight. Then again, twelve year-olds had prevailed in fights occasionally before; I might be able to do something if I tried. But when the outcomes are life or death, it doesn't really make you want to try and test the odds.

A groan of pain sounds from the clearing as Achilles attempts to clean one of his ally's larger wounds on her stomach. He whispers something to his injured ally, maybe trying to reassure her, but she shakes her head slightly and raises her arm weakly, motioning to the pocket of her pants. The male frowns, confused, and opens the pocket to reveal a small box containing a needle and some thread. She must have picked it up from the cornucopia before her fight with Rowan. I smile slightly, knowing the usefulness of the tools – my parents worked in the medical business after all. I did pick up a thing or two. But my grin disappears as soon as Achilles begins to attempt to thread the string through the needle. It's pretty clear that he's not terribly experienced in this sort of thing. It's something that I'd already guessed at, when he'd tried to bandage his own injury. _That's not right,_ I think to myself. "You're doing it wrong."

At first, I wonder what caused him to tense and drop the thread and needle. It's only when he grabs the hilt of the sword at his belt and whips it out, whirling around to face my hiding place that I realise in horror that I spoke the words aloud.

Immediately my hand claps over my mouth, but the damage is already done. The bush isn't all that great for hiding in; it's only helped me so far because neither he nor Imogen ever thought to watch for a tribute whose only intention was to watch them. His eyes meet mine and all I can do is stare, pale and petrified at the weapon held in his hand. _Oh, great job Catherine. Now you're going to die all because you had to comment on his medicinal skills. Excellent work._

If I wasn't so terrified right now, I might wonder why the sarcastic voice in my head seems to have Rhine's attitude.

The staring continues, neither of us making any move, and then slowly, it almost seems as though Achilles lowers his weapon. My eyes widen in shock; that can't be right, can it? If it was a Career who had spotted me, I would have been dead the second the words left my mouth. _But you're not dealing with the Career alliance,_ I remind myself.

"Catherine, right?"

I blink, the words not registering at all, my mind still in panic mode and unable to comprehend the simple question. "Uhh, what?"

"Catherine. The twelve year-old from District 6."

Slowly, I nod my head, still unable to understand the situation.

He stares at me for a second longer before his gaze wanders to Imogen, and then to the needle and thread beside her on the ground. "You know anything about stitches?"

Another nod, still no less confused. "And could you . . . could you help her?" Achilles asks.

I glance at his ally, and at the tools he holds. I had to sew stitches before; one time Arc and I were playing alone at home when we knocked over a picture frame of our family. The glass sliced open his foot pretty bad, and our parents weren't due home for another few hours yet. Beaux was usually the one who took care of us if we got injured – he had a real knack for healing people – but he was off with his girlfriend. I'd seen him sew stitches before, so I tried it on Arc. It was messy and my parents had to undo it and redo it when they came home, but after that Beaux decided to teach me how to sew up injuries properly. And I'd gotten pretty good since.

I approach her cautiously and analyse the injury. "I think so."

Achilles nods. "Good. Because apparently I'm doing it wrong."

I look up at him to see the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and I have to smile too before picking up the needle and thread and examining it. No use trying to sew up her stitches if the tools are infected with bacteria. "Do you have any water?" I ask him. "Something I could clean this in?"

"No, but I can get it for you," he says, standing and grabbing his trident. "Anything else?"

"Try and find these herbs." I give him a description of the plants I'd seen my mother use at home. "They should help to stop the bleeding."

"Got it," he says, but stops before he turns to go. "And . . . thanks."

"Don't worry about it." I watch him disappear into the woods and nearly smile. Guess I've got a plan to survive in the arena now. Or at least, I've got allies to watch my back.


	33. Art Critics, Needlers and Babysitters

_**Alright, new chapter! Summatives are slowly beginning to end, and then all I'll have left to do is study for exams before I'm free! Free to update as many times as I can in a week :) I'm really excited too; next chapter will be the unleashing of one of the bigger plans I've had for these Games. I'm sorry if these past few chapters have felt somewhat like "stall" chapters, but believe me, the action is going to start picking up REAL soon. Hehehe :)**_

_**So, and most of you have probably already done this, but if you haven't, vote on my profile poll for your favourite characters! Because their lives are going to start being in even more jeopardy soon :)**_

_**Oh, and this story has a cover now! Let me know what you think of it, I really wasn't sure how to use the new "Image Manager" thing. Plus, I don't know if I'm technically allowed to use the picture I chose. Ah well, I'll leave it up there for now. Oh, and since I haven't done a disclaimer yet: I'm not Suzanne Collins, nor the Brothers Grimm or anyone else who's written fairytales, I don't own either the Hunger Games or the other stories and so on :)**_

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

I push my hands through the dense underbrush, expecting them to have to once more fight through another layer of brambles, vines and the millions of other plants that seem to populate the arena. However, the surprise on my face quickly shows when my arms plunge through the greenery and hit open air. Does that mean . . .?

Excited by this newfound discovery, I quickly wrench aside the rest of the bushes and hurriedly make my way through the obstacle, until I come out on the other side face to face with the place I've been trying to reach since day one in the arena.

A solid wall of stone looms overhead, circling around to form a tower while an identical cylinder rises on the other side of the castle. A giant wooden door stands in the center of the building, currently shut, while above a large, old-fashioned looking clock ticks away the minutes. The medieval times weren't something that our school really focused on, but I'm sure that in real life the palace would have been _much_ larger. Still, for a scale model in the arena, it's a pretty darn good replica.

"And hopefully the inside is just as good as the outside," I say quietly to myself, heading towards the building. Since I'd spotted it from the tower right before I'd performed my death-defying leap, I knew that it was the place for me. The place is, very literally, a fortress – plus it seems to be on the edge of the arena, making it very hard for anyone (i.e. the Careers) to sneak up on me. And then there's the fact that if the Gamemakers really went all out, it should be just like a medieval castle, complete with swords, lances, catapults and all manners of weapons to defend myself. The downside of avoiding the bloodbath like I did was that it didn't give me the chance to pick up any sorts of supplies. Luckily I've had the advantage of growing up in District 11, so I've managed to survive the past few days on all manner of edible nuts, roots and berries that I've found, but I can tell that my stomach is aching for something more filling. Well, once I manage to get a hold of a weapon or two, hunting down some game shouldn't be a problem.

The giant double doors creak loudly as I push them open, and for a second I worry that I'll be overheard. But I haven't stopped travelling through the arena once in the four days it's been since we were all put in here and there's been no signs of anyone being on my trail. Even if someone were to try and make their way towards the castle they'd still be behind me, and once I find the weapons in this place I should be set.

_If there are any weapons,_ I remind myself as I cautiously enter the building. There's always a chance that the castle is just an empty pile of rocks; maybe the Gamemakers didn't want to go through the trouble of stocking the place up. However, once I get my first glance around, I can see that this isn't the case at all.

Standing before me is the richest, most elegant room I've ever seen, and for someone who's been to the Capitol, that's saying a lot. The stone floor is covered in a lush, crimson carpet that extends all the way to the back wall, where a magnificent throne sits upon a tall pedestal, with steps leading down covered in more rich materials. To one side is a dining area, and though it unfortunately lacks any of the food places like these must have held, it's still makes me stare in awe; I swear, the table alone is longer than our entire house. Behind it dozens of tapestries hang from the walls, each one depicting a unique story about some old-fashioned fight.

Hang on . . .

I turn away from the tapestries only to do a double take as the full meaning of the pictures enters my head. Those aren't any old-fashioned battles. I take a step forwards, my eyes widening as I analyse each one, wanting to turn away but somehow unable to.

The stars of the first tapestry are incredibly, and scarily familiar. My own district partner, Emerald, lying in a pool of scarlet fabric which must be meant to represent blood as the girl from 4, Meredith stands over her, holding an axe in one hand and a sword in the other, also covered in blood. Though it's apparent that it's not her own.

The second is just as gruesome, if not more so. The boy from 3, Ram with bloody wound in his back while the girl from 7 wipes the blood off of her knife with a sneer. I can't say that I knew Gwen well, or ever even held a conversation with her, but from the little glimpses I saw she didn't seem like the kind to enjoy killing someone that much.

Then again, there are multiple tributes whose personalities seem to have been distorted. A few tapestries down the girl from 1 dances in the blood of the girl from 5, while next to it the girl from 12 laughs as she dangles the girl from 8 over the edge of a cliff. Even the tributes who are the type to have fun killing kids seem to be enjoying it _way_ to much; the girl from 2 holds her bloody knife over her head, catching droplets of the crimson liquid on her tongue as the boy from 9 convulses before her. The only two I can see portrayed accurately are Meredith, who stars in another tapestry laughing as she pushes the girl from 10 off of the tower, and Rowan, who's frozen in the act of repeatedly stabbing the girl from 3, even though it's apparent that she's already dead. But looking around the room, my heart stops as I realise the most chilling fact of all. There's still enough room for 16 more images. When the Games are done, the death scenes of all 23 losers of the 37th annual Hunger Games will decorate the walls of the castle.

Without really paying attention to what I'm doing, I stumble backwards and turn away from the wall of horrors, squeezing my eyes shut. But still, the images swim before my vision. Why have the Gamemakers even placed those things here? The whole point of not revealing anymore information other than what tribute died was in order to protect the secrets of the tribute responsible for the murder, in case they had some sort of hidden skill or something. But even after seeing them, I realise that I don't feel like I've gained the upper hand at all. I just feel even more terrified of my competition.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and walk deliberately away from the horrifying pictures. I never was much of a fan of art. A smaller door nearby seems to lead away from the throne room and I jump gladly at the opportunity to exit the area, quickly swinging it open and striding through it. _Focus on your original plans, Dylian,_ I tell myself, trying to clear my thoughts. _Just find the armoury and get some weapons._ Right, swords and things. Find those. Concentrate on that; don't think about anything else.

But even still, a small part of my brain can't help but worry about how long it'll take before the tapestry depicting _my_ final moments is revealed.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

The thing should terrify me, rough bark grating against my skin, leaving splinters and debris wedged inside hands, burrowing deeper and deeper as they try to reach bone. And at first, when Lore offered me the fallen branch as a "walking stick," that was all I could think about. But after giving it a try, I found that it did make our journey easier, being able to lean on it occasionally. I've even begun to slowly grow used to the splinters, after getting over the initial horror that there was something sharp stuck in my body that shouldn't be there. It's all about the thoughts, really; the pain didn't even bother me, they were so small. Just the idea. So I've started to try and think less, attempt to see things how Lore and Gwen see them, without speculating about all the horrible ways I might die from a certain object or place. That's not to say that the arena, as they call it, still doesn't terrify me, but I've begun to adapt slightly. Actually, I think I enjoy being in the forest more than back in that awful city, where everything was loud and crazy and awful. The woods are quieter, calmer. Of course, that's not to say that they couldn't still be hiding innumerable horrors, all waiting to jump out and-

_Stop,_ I think, my hand wrapping around the moth necklace as it always does whenever I need to get over a fear. _You'll be safe. Gwen and Lore are here._

Technically, they're both asleep, but I know that they'd be ready to wake at a moment's notice if some sort of danger neared our camp. Gwen had originally wanted to stay up and keep watch instead of me, either because she was still mad about my attempt at saving her life (which I'm still not entirely sure I understand) or because she didn't think I'd be able to the job properly. And, despite my overall fear of staying up alone at night and just waiting for terrifying things to come creeping out of the forest, the latter idea just made me want to do it more. To prove something, maybe. After slowly beginning to get over my fear of the world outside, I started to realise what little help I am to Gwen and Lore. Back when I was still in our house, I guess you couldn't technically say I was used to being "independent" or "the leader type" since I was all alone. But I did have Zephyr, and whenever he showed up I was always the one who was more willing to take risks. Which, considering it's me, isn't saying much about the risks we took, but still. He'd always worry about things, and that fact just made me want to do it all the more. Like with the window. Or going back to our camp alone.

It made me also think about the fairytales I'd read. I'd never compare myself to a hero – even the idea is just silly. Heroes are brave, strong, skilled and good. Like Gwen and Lore. Which makes me think that I'm just weighing them down.

_Maybe if I learnt how to do something,_ I think to myself, looking down at the walking stick lying on top of my lap. _Like how to defend myself. Then maybe the world wouldn't seem so scary either._ Of course, that's easier said than done; I don't know anything about fighting, and I can't ask my allies. Gwen doesn't talk to me anymore, and if she has to, it's always with her menacing death glare. Whereas if I asked Lore, I'd feel embarrassed, since he already seems so good with a knife.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts as a rustling sound from behind me reaches my ears. Tensing, I spin around, my resolve not to worry about terrifying things disintegrating as I began to worry frantically about what new horror might be approaching. But nothing steps out of the forest; the noise was just Gwen and Lore waking up. _See Taralo? Nothing to be afraid of._

_Well, not yet anyways._

"Anything happen during watch?" Lore asks, yawning as he sits up. I shake my head. "Great. So what's the plan for today?"

"We keep moving," Gwen says, already on her feet and double checking the area, just in case I missed something. I don't think I would though; pretty much the only advantage I have from being kept in my house for fifteen years is that I catch things that other people, who are more used to the world and their surroundings, might skim over because of their familiarity. But I don't point that out to Gwen; she's been looking over her shoulder ever since we ran from the tower the first day we ended up in this arena. And I have a feeling she's watching for something specific. Or someone.

"Sounds good," is all Lore says as we pack up our few supplies and get ready to move again. He's been quieter since the evening after the whole problem with Gwen sleeping/not being dead occurred, when the sky lit up again with a face, which I'd come to realise represented someone that had died. At first I was horrified by the idea, but like the rest of this weird and insane place, I've gotten somewhat used to it. At least we don't have to watch them die. I didn't really recognise the person, but Lore had said something about his district partner. I think it meant like how Catherine and I had been partners. I could understand how he felt; I think I would have been sad too if Catherine had died. She really helped during the awful week where we were stuck in that horrible city.

We start to walk, but we don't get very far before we reach a long, steep mountain-like hill, which stretches across the length of the area. Over to our left, I can see a dark, jagged hole acting as an entrance into the cave. Immediately thoughts of what might be lurking in the shadows attempt to infiltrate my brain, and my hands go to my throat again to feel for the comforting presence of the moth.

"Well, _that_ doesn't look dangerous," Lore says. I frown at him, confused; I think it looks very, _very_ dangerous.

"It's the only way," Gwen says, looking up and down the length of the hill. "Unless you think we can climb it."

The three of us glance at the face of the hill; climbing it seems pretty impossible. "Why don't we just go another way?" Lore asks.

"Because we have to keep moving away from the Careers."

"They're setting up base at the tower and we've been moving away from it for ages, they're not going to find us anytime soon. We've got time for a detour."

"No!" I glance up at Gwen as her voice rises. Lore seems slightly surprised as well, and as I look back at Gwen I see something flash in her eyes, an emotion that I've never seen on her but felt on myself numerous times. Fear. Of what? But before I can think about it, she takes a deep breath and the worry disappears from her face. "Sorry. But I think this cave is our best bet. I mean, sure it might be rigged with Gamemaker traps, but so is the rest of the arena, right?"

I'm still not entirely convinced that the cave is our best bet; even if there are plenty of traps and dangers outside, at least we can _see_ them, what with the sun during the day and the little balls of light at night. In the cave, all _sorts_ of terrifying things could be hiding in the shadows, things with giant fangs and razor-sharp claws, ready to tear us limb from-

The warm, soft fabric that encases the moth rubs against my hand as I squeeze it once again for support. Everything will be all right. I trust Gwen and Lore. After all, we haven't run into anything really terrifying since that first awful day. So they obviously know what they're doing; whatever decision they make will be the right one.

I hope.

Lore's still staring at Gwen, perhaps trying to analyse the cause of her sudden outburst. But he doesn't draw any more attention to it, instead merely shrugging. "Alright, if you want." He grins drily. "What do we have to lose?"

Everything. Our limbs, our sanity, our lives. But I steel myself anyways and slowly follow them into the darkness without complaint. I can do this; I can be brave. I've got Lore and Gwen. And maybe Zephyr, if I can call him up. Actually, that might be a good idea; having to reassure and comfort him from his fears can often make me forget about mine.

I'm just trying to focus on my friend – while attempting to ignore the enclosing shadows around us – when the darkness is pierced by a shaft of light. Lore and Gwen look at each other, some sort of silent conversation passing between them, before they cautiously approach. I would have been perfectly happy to stay away from the light and what it could mean, but I can't let them go alone. Then again, it's not like having me there makes much of a difference anyways.

"What in the world is that?" Lore whispers, as we round the corner of the dark cave, following the path of the light. Its source is still unidentifiable, but from somewhere in the ceiling of the rocks what looks like rays from the sun are shining down, illuminating an object that sits right before the dead end. And though I've never seen one in real life, I can clearly remember it from Summer's book of fairytales.

"It's a spindle," I murmur quietly, but only Gwen seems to hear and after turning, eyebrows raised to find my face draining of what little colour it still has, she just dismisses what I'd said. But I have a reason to be so worried; there was a spindle in one of the stories in my book, and the last person to approach it hadn't faired so well. I'd forgotten to tell Gwen and Lore about that one, but I'd better now; or else we might end up asleep for a few hundred years. Or for eternity.

Before I can the words out of my mouth though, Lore steps forwards, as though curious to get a closer look. I hold my breath, but nothing happens and cautiously, he takes another. Only then does my wild, frantic gaze land on the thread that unrolls from the spindle all the way down the little cavern to the three of us, where it crosses sharply to the other side of the wall forming some sort of tripwire.

_Trap._

"Wai-!" I start to shout, but before I can get the words out of my mouth he takes another step, tugging on the line and causing it to snap. Lore freezes, realising what just happened and beside me Gwen tenses too, as we watch the spindle dissolve before our eyes until it's nothing more than a pile of wood shavings. But that can't be the only part of the trap; in the fairytale, the danger of the spindle was the needle where the princess pricked her finger. _Needle . . ._

As usual, my mind begins whirring as images of all the horrifying things that could happen to us in this cave come flooding in, but this time I don't push them away; instead, I try to search for what might be a plausible trap. And I begin to reach the same conclusion just as the walls start to move.

"Run!" Gwen shouts and the three of us dash out of the tunnel as on either sides of us the walls begin to close inwards, their rocky surfaces disrupted as millions of large needles emerge to the surface, ready to skewer anyone who strays too close to the walls. Or who has the walls stray too close to them. My heart begins to pound as my muscles strain and groan – I've never run like this in my life – but I refuse to let up, focusing my gaze on the figure of Gwen in front of me as we sprint through the cave, taking random twists and turns in an effort to get away from the enclosing walls.

Up ahead our ally in the lead shouts something, but I can't hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. Then I see what she means; farther down the tunnel we're currently travelling in is a sort of arch in the rocks, leading to a wider area where the walls are as they should be – that is to say, completely still. But I don't know if we'll make it; the points of the needles are getting closer and closer, points ready to stab into our skin, drawing blood and . . .

_Don't_, I think fiercely. _Run, don't think. Just run._ We've only got about five feet left and sensing the freedom, Gwen pours on the speed while Lore and I attempt to do so behind her. Four feet, while there's about half that distance left in between the moving walls of our corridor. Three, two – something sharp digs into my arm, tearing the skin as I run past and force it to dislodge. In a frantic panic, I bring my arms close to my chest, but now another stinging feeling hits my left leg and some sort of liquid begins to trickle down. We're not going to-

Ahead of me Gwen leaps forwards, pushing off of the ground to go flying through the rapidly diminishing opening ahead. Without even thinking, I follow her example and jump forwards, feeling the rush of air against my face as I pray that I'll make it, that I won't die pierced by thousands of small, sharp skewers.

The ground comes up abruptly and I hit it hard, rolling a few feet away from the opening before rising frantically and watching as Lore is the last to jump through. He nearly crashes into Gwen, who just keeps staring at the tunnel, watching as the two walls meet and crash into each other, the cacophonous sound of millions of needles breaking and being smashed together as they collide. Then, as quickly as it started, the noise stops, and the walls form a complete barrier in the archway, leaving no suggestion that there ever was a tunnel there in the first place.

The true force of my injuries – the many needles' cuts as well as the bruises from where I landed on the floor – return as the adrenaline begins to leave, and along with them come the terrified thoughts of how close we all came to dying. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement, and whirl around, expecting to see more walls closing in, but it's just Lore, who slowly collapses onto the ground, alternating between making extremely relieved noises and trying to catch his breath. Gwen pushes her hair back from her face, also trying to get the air back into her lungs before standing. "That was . . ."

"Awful," Lore finishes. "Let's not do that again."

She sighs and looks around. "Well we're stuck in here anyways, unless you can remember which way the exit was."

"I wish," he says. "Whose stupid idea was it to go down here anyways?"

Gwen frowns slightly, perhaps remembering that it was _her_ stupid idea to enter the cave. "We just need to be more careful not to trigger the traps."

"And how're we supposed to know where they are?"

She pauses, unsure, but then turns to me. "You saw it, didn't you? Right before he stepped on it."

The ability to use words seems to have left me temporarily after our close encounter with death, so all I can do is nod. "It's because of the book," Lore says, sitting up. "You've read all the stories, right? The Gamemakers must have had to too, when they decided to place all these traps. Do you think you might be able to . . . see them beforehand?"

Now it's my turn to hesitate as my two allies turn to look at me. Could I find the traps again? It's not so much that I couldn't, it's that I don't want to. I've been having a hard enough time trying to forget about the terrors my own mind conjures up, let alone go looking for ones that the monsters back in the city have placed here. But if it'll help us get out of the cave, then . . . "Yes," I manage to croak out, my throat feeling dry from the running. "I-I think so."

"Thank goodness," Lore says. Gwen still continues to stare at me, seemingly not convinced, but after a moment she sighs. "Well, I guess it's all we've got. Now, which way should we head?" she continues, glancing down the other three tunnels that lead off of the area. "Taralo, do any fairytales say which-?"

"Later." The two of us turn to Lore, who's gone back to lying on the ground. "Let's just . . . enjoy the fact that we're not dead for a moment."

Gwen rolls her eyes, her customary response to most of what Lore says, but she sits back down on the ground. Meanwhile, I scooch backwards until my back rests against the cave wall and close my eyes, trying to calm my thoughts as both of my hands wrap around my necklace, searching for the comforting feeling of the moth. Yes, we're alive; and that's beyond wonderful. But how many times are we going to have to do something like that again?

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

"So is there a point to all of this, or are you just enjoying wasting our time?"

I smirk down at Rhine, who's glaring up at me from the hole, one of the oddly shaped spears in her hand while the other holds her sword. "Well, I'd figured that it would be obvious to you four but apparently you're not as smart as I'd first anticipated." I stretch out from my crouched position overlooking the young Careers. "Which is saying something considering I never even thought of you as remotely intelligent to begin with." Rhine glowers up at me. "But why bother asking me? I'm sure one of you has figured it out."

My eyes land on Janaff just as Rhine and Code turn to him as well; Cordelia, on the other hand, just keeps working away at pulling the spears from the ground. I must say, I very much enjoy the change in attitude that she's had ever since her first kill. Silent, never annoyingly enthusiastic or excited – just goes to show that murdering others can have a _wonderful_ effect on someone's personality.

"Any ideas then Janaff?" I say with a smirk. "After all, that brain of yours is really the only reason why you're in the Pack."

He stares up at me with his usual analysing gaze, reading between the lines to understand the underlying threat behind my words. Yes, his intelligence is what got him a place in with the Careers; but if he starts getting a little _too_ smart, well, I hardly believe that it'll be difficult to kill off the little nerd from Eight.

"Well," he begins, pushing his glasses up his nose and turning to Code and Rhine. "We're obviously altering a trap the Gamemakers placed in the arena, making it so that it won't be fatal to anyone who falls in. I still don't understand _why_ though," he adds, looking back up at me and despite his words, I can see that he's beginning to form an idea as to the method behind my madness. "Unless you're worried that one of us might walk into it."

"As believable as it is that you idiots _would_ trigger the trap, your lives really don't matter to me that much." Surprise briefly flashes across the faces of the younger Careers; I doubt that any of them were stupid enough to believe that I cared whether they lived or died, but coming outright and saying it makes it seem more . . . true. Which of course would positively terrify them, considering the fact that I could kill them all at any time without so much as breaking a sweat. But for now, I've decided to keep the Pack together for a bit longer; their skills, while pathetic compared to my own, could be somewhat useful in the future.

Although if Rhine keeps up with that attitude, I might have to go back on my previous decision and end her life, if only to give myself a bit of peace from her snarky remarks and bickering with her district partner. Watching the young Careers has definitely been testing my patience; occasionally throughout the morning I'd considered going back to the tower and swapping jobs with Perrin. Babysitting four idiots or one murderous psycho – which would you rather? At least Rowan doesn't talk all that much. _Plus there's always the fact that, while a good fighter, he's at a distinct disadvantage,_ I think with a smirk, remembering our fight yesterday. After that he'd wisely decided to be a good little boy and follow us back to the tower, where his pride had once again been destroyed as he had needed help getting back up to our base camp. With one arm, I'm guessing he just slowly let himself slide down the rope the night he decided to so rudely leave during his watch. Unfortunately for him, climbing back up the tower wasn't nearly as easy.

Following his little escape attempt, Perrin and I had a discussion that, for once, resulted in us agreeing. Our District 7 ally needed to be watched a little more closely. I would have gladly volunteered to stay behind and keep an eye on him, perhaps with an attempt or two at adding some verbal torture to keep his physical one company, but I'd already had an idea on putting the younger Careers to use and something told me that Perrin would not have agreed if I'd let him in on my plan. _He's a weak link,_ I think to myself. _A weak link._ But still I'm putting up with him, keeping him around. Why? Because despite the fact that he constantly seems to forget what the prime objective of the Hunger Games is, he's still a skilled fighter? Or maybe just because that, when compared to Rhine and her attitude, Code and his nonsense about fate and divination and all that crap, Cordelia and her annoying perkiness (until the evening of the hunt, that is), Janaff and his obvious inferiority to the rest of us trained tributes and Rowan with his anger management issues, Perrin's soft personality doesn't seem all that bad. So I deal with his opinions and decisions, which are so different from my own and, most importantly, wrong.

For now, at least.

"So then why the nonfatal trap?" Janaff asks and I smirk before hopping down into the hole next to Code, startling him and causing him to take an unconscious step back.

"Come now, Janaff, you should be able to get this." When all he does is raise an eyebrow, I grin. "Firstly, if any idiot fell into this hole and died, it wouldn't be counted as our kill. And besides, what's the fun of eating your food if you can't play with it first?"

None of them, not even Rhine, can hide the shock on their faces at my statement. They can fool themselves all they want into thinking that they're diehard Careers – when it comes down to killing someone, they just want to get it over with as quickly as possible. I, on the other hand, don't work like that. Isn't it so much more fun to watch the tributes _squirm_?

"I think we're done here," Rhine says, the shock melting off of her face as she tries to come back with a biting retort. "Anything else, _Your Highness_?"

My smirk meets her glare head on. "Well, if you're offering to test the effectiveness of the trap and whatever happens afterwards, be my guest." Code and Janaff both look up, startled, their eyes shifting between the two of us as though following an imaginary ball being passed around. Rhine's glare doesn't let off, but I can see something waver behind her cold, hard gaze. _Fear_.

Still, she continues to stare daggers at me, but I'm satisfied knowing that I got to her. "Just climb out of the hole and I'll cut down anything that might help someone escape afterwards," I add, placing one foot on the same root that stopped by nearly fatal fall three days ago and leaping upwards, propelling myself backwards through the air, landing on my hands as I clear the edge of the hole and reach the glass beyond before allowing myself to fall forwards, completing my strange back flip and coming to a standing position firmly planted on the ground, looking down at the rest of them before fingering the axe at my belt. "You might want to hurry; I won't wait for any stragglers."

The four of them take the hint and quickly scramble out of the hole, much less gracefully than my exit. Once Code has finally pulled himself over the rim of the pit, I lean down and chop any tree roots that I can see, effectively eliminating anyone's chances of getting out of the hole. At least, until we come back to check on them. I smile at the thought and turn back to the young Careers, all of which have dirt smeared on their faces from working all morning. "Well, let's not keep the others waiting," I say. "Back to the tower now. Chop, chop." I smile, waving my axe in a shooing motion and they quickly turn and begin walking back to our base, Rhine striding forwards to take the lead while Cordelia trains behind her, Janaff and Code bringing up the rear. I watch them leave through the forest, but make no move to follow them yet. Instead, I turn back to our handiwork, looking at the decent sized pit we've made before making a quick crisscrossing layer of thin sticks over the opening and piling some of the greenery nearby over it. Unfortunately, camouflage isn't exactly my forte (it's a skill only weak tributes use to hide, therefore I don't bother learning it), but the hole looks relatively unassuming. I can only hope that the rest of the tributes in this arena are as ignorant as those in our alliance; if they are, the trap should work perfectly. _And then we can have some real fun,_ I think, smiling to myself as I withdraw a new weapon I'd discovered at the Cornucopia last night on watch from the large pockets of my pants, slowly unravelling each coil. _Yes, it'll be an absolute party._

I grin one last time before heading off after my allies, re-pocketing the whip with almost loving care.

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><p><em><strong>EDIT: Sorry, forgot to put this in earlier. Just in case people didn't catch the re-listed deaths in Dylian's POV, here the list of those who are dead:<strong>_

_**Emerald Marsh, District 11 Female - stabbed by Meredith Blade**_

_**Ram Underhill, District 3 Male - knife to the back thrown by Gwen Watkins**_

_**Sparkie Jesfer, District 3 Female - stabbed by Rowan Hollows**_

_**Devera Let, District 10 Female - thrown off the tower by Meredith Blade**_

_**Carlisle McAwny, District 9 Male - stabbed by Rhine Carson**_

_**Bree Hudson, District 5 Female - arrow to the head by Cordelia Schylla**_

_**Precious Blu, District 8 Female - pushed off cliff by Malia Endal**_

_**There you go guys! Hope that clears some stuff up**_


	34. Ales Mortem

**_I really should be studying for exams right now . . . but eh, I was way too excited to get this chapter out :) First off, thanks to the amazing Lazybelle who gave me the idea for doing a chapter from someone's POV outside of the Games. So yeah, no tributes in this one guys, sorry. But I think you'll find it's worth it :)_**

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><p><em>In the Capitol . . .<em>

Kelwin paused outside the door, unsure whether or not to continue. Couldn't he get in huge trouble for this? It wasn't as though he was shirking or skipping work – each of the Gamemakers were entitled to breaks throughout the Games. And his had been _long_ overdue; being the one who came up with the idea of using fairytales as a theme for the arena, his eyes had stayed glued to the screen ever since the Claudius Templesmith had announced the beginning of the 37th annual Hunger Games – every trap, every mutt, everything had to be pulled off without a hitch, or else the Head Gamemaker might pick _him_ to blame for it all. But so far, everything had been going wonderfully. Well, except for the very start of the bloodbath, where the boy from Eleven had expertly found his way around the 60 second rule and completely shown them all up. Kelwin remembered the teen's private training session; they should have _expected_ something like this to happen. He remembered his heart beating faster at the thought, wondering if maybe Lilibeth was thinking along the same lines, or rather, thinking that _he_ should have been the one to see the little display of rebellion coming.

But all had ended well; turned out that the Head Gamemaker had instead chosen to blame the man responsible for setting off the mines manually, should the need ever arise, which it rarely did. Maybe that had been the reason he hadn't been paying attention but whatever the reason, Kelwin and the others hadn't seen him around since then. Probably fired. _Or worse,_ he thought, shuddering slightly. Whatever "worse" was, he didn't want to contemplate it. Especially since what he was doing would probably have a penalty ten times harsher than forgetting to push a button.

Still, he _had_ to do it. It had been two days since the last death in the arena, and there hadn't even been any skirmishes between tributes, unless he counted the one where the two Psychos, as he and the other Gamemakers had dubbed them, had their little fight. But the audience wanted more, and at the moment the tributes just _weren't_ providing. Which would make the ratings drop and then Lilibeth might decide to ask whose genius idea the fairytales were in the first place. And the Gamemakers all knew what happened to the guilty party when _that_ question was asked.

_So it's all for the best,_ he reassured himself, wiping his sweaty palms on the robes of his Gamemaker outfit. _Yes, breaking into the top-secret office where the Head Gamemaker stores all of the confidential plans for the arena is an absolutely wonderful idea._

Somehow though, the thought didn't reassure him, and it was with a hesitant hand that raised his arm and twisted the doorknob. For the briefest moment, the thought that the office would be locked reached his mind, though he wasn't entirely sure whether he'd be relieved or disappointed if that happened.

But surprisingly, the door opened with no resistance, and he peeked his head into the crisp office, checking to make sure no one was in sight. Another similar sweep of the hallways was done before he slipped through the oak door and allowed it to swing shut behind him.

Vaguely, he could remember a time before Head Gamemaker Lilibeth, when the one in charge had been a Mr Vasel Gaeves. The man had only been in his late forties, but the thing Kelwin could remember about him the most was how . . . _eccentric_ he had been. Probably why the government had forced him into early retirement. But before that had occurred, Kelwin had once been called into this very office along with a few of the other more senior Gamemakers to discuss how to get some action out of the 19th Hunger Games, when the only tributes left had been a small twelve year-old, a introverted teen from Three and a hallucinating drug-addict going through major withdrawal. Yes, getting them all together for a fight had certainly been one of the toughest jobs he'd ever had to undertake in his career. He could still remember the desperate ideas he and the others had been throwing out as they sorted madly through the stacks of notes on traps, glancing over the homemade models of mutts and the different parts of the arena, trying madly to find _something_ that could work.

However, it was clear that as soon as Lilibeth had taken over Gaeves's previous position, she'd brought her own style back to the office, which was much more high-tech and overall . . . cleaner. All written information about the arenas were stashed away in sleek, silver filing cabinets, the number 37th clearly written at the top of the closest one, while on the other side of the room a large, circular control panel had been set up, with a holographic simulator in the middle to bring the images up when mere 2D pictures weren't enough.

Kelwin glanced over his shoulder once more at the door behind him, which still remained closed and undisturbed, before turning back to the room before him and heading the control panel. The filing cabinets gave information on the arena in general as well as its various traps; he didn't need to know any of that, he'd planned the whole thing out, for goodness sakes. But mutts weren't his department; other than giving the scientists and lab technicians a few ideas, he'd basically left things up to them. Now it was time to see what they'd come up with.

"No, no . . ." he muttered to himself, sifting through the different files and watching as each new species appeared in hologram form. Evil, tiny mice with sewing scissors and needles; a mutt made to look like a human male before dissolving into dozens of fat, ugly frogs – who came up with these kinds of ideas? Someone needed to be fired in this department.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Kelwin jumped nearly a foot off of the ground, whirling around to come face to face with the Head Gamemaker herself, a very stern expression in her steel grey eyes. "Lilibeth! I-I . . . uh . . ."

His stuttered excuse died in his throat as she waved her hand dismissively. "Save it. I know exactly why you're in here." He gulped, but she didn't seem ready to punish him at all; on the contrary, the stern glare melted slightly as a wearier look crossed her face. "Trying to stir up excitement in the Games, am I right?"

He nodded as she walked briskly over, coming to a stop next to him, facing the control panel and the current hologram of a mutt who seemed to be some sort of devilish, grinning cat. "You're not part of the muttations division, Kelwin, but as it was _you_ who came up with this whole fairytale idea in the first place, I trust your judgement." She laughed slightly at the shock clearly evident on his face; as soon as she'd referred to him as the one behind the whole fairytale plot, he had been sure that she would start yelling about how useless the arena currently was. "Now, many of these mutts are . . . satisfactory," she began again, curling her lip at the smiling cat and pressing a button to make its image disappear. "But we need something bigger. The audience always enjoys it more when it's the tributes killing each other, and it gets the point of the Games across _much_ more effectively. We have a perfectly good Career pack this year; quite a few of the members are eager to kill. We just need to push some tributes in their direction."

"W-what do you have in mind?" he asked, not entirely able to keep the stutter out of his voice. Even after the Head Gamemaker had admitted that she valued his opinion, he was still worried that one false step could result in losing his job.

"As the Head Gamemaker, I have a wide range of responsibilities, mostly revolving around trying to keep this whole operation together." He opened his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of "And you do it extremely well," but she raised her hand again and cut him off briskly. "Save it. Unnecessary flattery isn't what we need now. Anyways, as the one in charge I'm supposed to keep a distance from helping one division in particular, but I've always had a certain . . . passion for muttations. You might remember my father, Carles Juner, head of the department until Clemens took over?"

Kelwin nodded again; it was hard to forget the man who had first had the idea of using the mutated animals intended to help win the rebellion in the Games. "Yes, well, like father like daughter," Lilibeth continued, the ghost of a smile on her face. "This creature is something only I, Clemens and those responsible for its containment know about."

She sifted through the digital files until finding one labelled _Code: Ales Mortem_ and brought up the image as a hologram before turning to see Kelwin's reaction. "What do you think?"

What did he think? What did he think? He couldn't think, couldn't say anything as he stared at the monstrosity before him; he barely managed to stop himself from jumping back as the beast appeared in the middle of the control panel. Uselessly, he tried moving his mouth, but no sound came out. This was-this was . . . evil. Pure evil.

But it was just what the Games needed.

Lilibeth raised an eyebrow at his reaction, seeming to understand his answer despite his lack of words. "Yes, it's quite something, isn't it? Completely authentic as well; after ages of testing, we finally managed to get it _exactly_ how it's described in the books. A hell of a thing to contain but we've managed."

"How?" he asked faintly.

"We've got a big lab under one of the mountains, just for such purposes. It's rarely used; in fact I think the last time we needed to contain an animal this big was for the very 1st Games." Kelwin shuddered at the memory and even Lilibeth faltered slightly. "But anyways, it's being kept safe there and one of the tunnels under the lab was excavated to lead straight to the present arena, just for the purpose of these Games. Of course, once it's in the arena it most likely won't be possible to regulate its actions, other than having the force field present to keep it from straying _too_ far, which means the tributes will truly be alone to deal with it. Should stir some action up, don't you think?" She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh yes," he said quietly, remembering last night when he'd stayed late again with the other Gamemakers, and had called his wife to let her know that he wouldn't be coming home again. He'd talked to Breccan and Annora briefly, the former of which wanted to see more of the "Cool Jumping, Stealing Guy" while the latter wanted more romance. The two had argued over the phone for ten minutes before Verena managed to get back on.

"_And what do you want to see in the Games?" he'd asked her._

"_Anything that'll get you out of that office and back home," she'd answered and he'd smiled._

"_Be serious."_

"_I am. Anything's fine; but maybe . . . try to keep the gore to a minimum. I don't want the violence to influence the kids and they get mad when I tell them to cover their eyes."_

"_Dear, it's the Hunger Games; violence is sort of a requirement."_

"_I know," she'd sighed. "But, if you could try, it'd be nice."_

. Less violence was most certainly _not _going to be a possibility now.

"Lilibeth! Lilibeth!" The two turned just in time to see the short, balding figure of Clemens, the muttation division's head, barrel into the room. "There's been . . . oh." He paused as he caught sight of Kelwin. "What's he doing in here?"

"Being useful," Lilibeth snapped. "Now what is it?"

The man stared at Kelwin for a second longer before snapping out of his reverie. "Right, news. Ratings are dropping fast, the president just called to say that he's very upset with the current rate the Games are going. What are we supposed to do?"

Lilibeth considered the news, seeming unperturbed by the fact that the _president_ of Panem was growing bored with the Games. Everyone knew what happened when the president got bored. Then slowly, she turned to Kelwin, and he was surprised to see almost a hint of a smile on her face. "Well?"

He raised his eyebrows. "What? You want . . . me to do something?"

The smile became more pronounced. "They're your Games, Mr Metoph. _You_ thought of the idea. So what do you propose we do?"

Kelwin stared at her, the wheels in his head spinning as he tried to understand what the Head Gamemaker meant. Meanwhile, Clemens was standing in front of them both, glancing from one to the other while the fact that he had absolutely no idea what was going on was written all over his face. "Look, I don't care who makes the bloody decisions!" he said finally. Normally no one would ever even _think _of speaking to the Head Gamemaker like that, but apparently he'd decided that he had bigger things to worry about. "If we don't come up with something soon, we're all dead!"

"We've got something," Kelwin said suddenly, realising what Lilibeth wanted him to do. He sighed inwardly and regretfully turned towards Clemens, who had a look of wild fear on his face. "Code Ales Mortem."

The Head of Muttations stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then slowly the meaning of the words began to dawn on him. "You're not serious?" He laughed in disbelief. "Are you out of your minds? That thing's still in the test phase, we've no _idea_ what it could . . ."

"Just do it," Kelwin said, cutting him off mid-rant. "Do it."

The seriousness of the situation finally hit Clemens and slowly the disbelieving laughter died away. "You are serious."

"Yes."

"And you want me to . . ."

"Yes. Unleash the dragon."


	35. Unleashed

_**Whoo! One exam down, two more to go! And I qualify this as studying for my English exam :) **_

_**Oh, and if anyone's interested, I just started a new story (I know, another one, I'm awful) about the Hunger Games. It's an AU fic where Katniss, Peeta, Gale and Madge are all from different districts and find themselves all in the 74th Hunger Games. The other main characters of the book (Rue, Thresh, most of the Careers and Foxface) are still present; I just took out the unnamed ones :) If anyone wants to read it I'd be really grateful!**_

_**Anyways, enough self-advertising :) Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

I'm just attempting to build myself a weak sort of shelter when it happens.

"Come on," I murmur in frustration as the branches collapse yet again; it hadn't even reached the point where it looked anything at all like a lean-to. _Should have paid more attention to the shelter station during training,_ I chide myself. _Well, it's not exactly like it would have helped going there anyways. I was always being constantly annoyed and distracted by . . ._

I stop short, all thoughts dispersing as they make way for that one name to bounce its way around my head. _Devera_. My friend's sister, my district partner, my ally. Lying back at the bottom of the tower, limbs splayed in wild directions, blood oozing from-

_Stop!_ I think fiercely, bending down and grabbing a handful of the sticks, trying to put them back into position. Anything to distract myself from those thoughts. I haven't forgotten her, not by a long shot, but what I should do is remember her as someone who's death I should avenge, my reason for opposing the Careers. I'd nearly managed to kill the leader in the Gamemaker trap I'd found earlier, but after hearing no cannon and seeing no face of a certain District 4 female in the sky, I could obviously rule out the fact that she was dead. Injured, maybe. Hopefully.

_So concentrate on that; on making more traps, thinking up new strategies. You can do that, Calican; you've got a good brain for that sort of thing. Just don't think about the bloodbath._ It's true; I really need to focus more on surviving the Games. Once I'm out of the arena and don't have to worry about watching out for 23 kids intent on murdering me (well, 17 now, I guess), _then_ I can let the thoughts come and hopefully try and find a way to get over them. I can't stop myself from seeing the event over and over when I fall asleep, but I can at least try and stop the images from coming when I'm awake.

Resolving to try and distract myself, I start trying to place the sticks back into the triangle shape I've been trying to make, and it's only when they collapse immediately that I realise the shaking and trembling that's been going on for nearly ten minutes while I've been stuck in my own thoughts. The ground is quaking, almost like when I'd nearly walked into the sink hole and later tried to trap Meredith there. But I'm nowhere _near_ that trap; I'd never let up sprinting away the first night, terrified that since I hadn't heard the cannon, Meredith or whatever other Career she was with might be chasing me, and even after that I'd still kept up a pretty steady pace away from there. So this must be a different thing, though still most likely the work of the Gamemakers. Which means that I should probably run as far away as I possibly can. After all, curiosity killed the cat; or the Calican, in this case. Still, I pause after taking a few steps away from the rumbling and then, ever so slowly, I turn back. If it _is_ some sort of mutt, I don't like the idea of just blindly running away from it; if I catch a glimpse of it, then I can at least start to formulate some sort of plan or strategy. _Just one peek, _I tell myself, slowly creeping to the top of the hill and towards the source of the rumbling despite the warnings my brain is screaming at me. _One tiny peek._

However, one tiny peek turns into a much longer stare as I frown at the new development. _What the heck?_ I think, trying to make some sense of the new development. Well, at the very least, the source of the tremors is now apparent. As I watch, a vast portion of the ground continues sliding back as though it's some sort of giant door, revealing a seemingly infinite, black space beneath.

Weird, yes. Confusing, yes. Menacing, not so much. After all, it's. . . . just a hole.

_Which might be the most disconcerting part. _In the arena, nothing is _just_ anything. It must serve some sort of function; but what? The other trap I nearly walked into was at least there for a reason. But it's not like I'd be stupid enough to walk into a hole that's already uncovered. I raise my eyebrows, looking up into the air as though the Gamemakers might send me some sort of message to make this all clear. "What, nothing?" I ask, not really talking to anyone in particular. "Just going to . . . leave a giant hole in the ground? Okay then. Well, have fun with _that_." I shrug, still wondering what the point of that was but nowhere near stupid enough to go near the thing, and, after glancing one last time upwards, where I'm sure a dozen cameras are fixing on my face, I turn away from the hole and take a step.

Out of nowhere a gigantic blast of heat roars into existence, searing my back and causing me to cry out in shock as I trip and tumble to the ground, before whirling around to watch in horror as what seems like a giant pillar of fire continues to erupt from the hole. Even at my distance, the heat sears my face and I have to cover my eyes from the brightness. For another second, the fire continues its cacophonous barrage of heat and sound; then, all at once, it stops. Panting and gasping like crazy, I open my eyes and stare at the hole, now faded into blackness once more. But only for a moment; then, two huge, reptilian eyes seem to blink into existence, glaring with the force of a thousand daggers at me.

I open my mouth to scream, or swear, or _something_, but I can't make a sound as I stare, paralysed into the great, red eyes, my heart beating so quickly that it feels as though it's going to pound its way out of my chest. _Let it go away,_ I pray, still unable to do anything but shudder, not daring to break the gaze. _Let the ground close up again; let it go back into the hole. Just please let it go._

The . . . the _thing,_ whatever it is, its eyes narrow and I can feel the sweat beading at my forehead and then slowly rolling down my paling face. Somehow though, my paralysed brain manages to process one, relatively sane thought. _Back away. Back away slowly._

My arms are trembling by my sides at being tensed to the point of snapping from fear, and it feels as though nothing could ever make them move, but I've begun to realise that I can't hold a staring contest with new monstrosity is forever; sooner or later, one of us is going to have to make a move. And if I go second, then I'm as good as dead. So slowly, _achingly_ slowly, my hand begins to inch across the forest floor behind me, shaking so badly that I can barely manage to keep it level as I replace it on the ground. The beast doesn't seem to notice, but its eyes seem to flicker with something, as though it knows what I'm trying to do. Swallowing hard, I try to master my fear – which is pretty difficult considering every single nerve in my body is screaming in terror– and slowly use my arms to push myself less than an inch off the ground.

Immediately, the thing's eyes narrow and a low growling begins to pour from the hole, vibrating the very ground beneath me and causing me to instantly freeze again, suspended in the act of doing an odd sort of crabwalk crawl away from the hole. The only thing trembling worse than the ground is my arms, now from the added stress of supporting me as well as shivering in fear. Sooner or later, they're going to give. _No,_ I think quietly, suddenly terrified of what the monster might do if I try to move again. _Just stay frozen, stay frozen. Scratch what I thought earlier; do not move, stay right where you are. Don't-_

All at once, my shaking arms collapse and I sit hard back onto the ground, eyes widening as the monster's narrows further. Then, they wink out completely.

I stare at the dark hole, the piercing red eyes still swimming before my vision, until it finally registers that they're gone. The breath I wasn't aware I'd been holding comes out all at once, and I start panting as though I'd just run a marathon, one hand going over my heart, feeling the racing pulse of beats while my other limbs start shaking uncontrollably from the tension they held just moments earlier. Is that really it? Is it . . . is it gone?

WHOOSH!

The flames burst from the hole with alarming ferocity and I gasp, too terrified to even make a sound. It's only when the gigantic claw rises from the darkness and slams to the ground with such force that some of the nearby trees shudder and snap that I snap out of it and scramble backwards, desperately trying to get to my feet. "Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!" The words, previously frozen in my throat, now can't seem to stop coming out, as I say the same word over and over, almost like some sort of cursing mantra as I stare in horror at the being now attempting to claw its way out of the whole. With another ear-shattering roar, a head swings up from the hole, as black as the shadows themselves with sleek, shining scales and two lethal-looking horns protruding from the back. Though the part that draws my attention, even more than the bestial eyes, is the rows and rows of sharp, dagger-like teeth, if daggers came in lengths of over five feet. As I stare, mouth open in horror, the dragon's own mouth opens, letting loose a bellow of rage that petrifies me to the bone. Only the sight of the fiery ball building in the back of its throat seems to snap me out of my frozen straight and with another shout of fear I rake my hands across the ground, feet finally finding traction in the dirt and without pausing I leap to my feet and take off sprinting at full force, just in time to avoid the deadly wave of fire that comes pouring from the dragon's mouth.

It roars in anger at the fact that its prey got away but I'm too busy tearing through the forest to even pay attention to the branches thrashing me in the face, much less worry about pursuit. At least until a gigantic blast of wind surges forth, whipping my brown hair around me while the material of my shirt ripples wildly; the force of the air is so powerful that I nearly go flying. I just manage to regain my balance when another violent blast emits from somewhere behind me, though slightly less overwhelming this time. Risking a glance over my shoulder, I search wildly for the source of this new danger, until my eyes land back on the old danger. Because it is producing the wind.

_It's flying._

"Crap!" I shout again, for lack of anything better to say, and my brain goes into overdrive as I pour on the speed, pushing my muscles to their limits. But the aching protests from my legs are easy to ignore in light of the fact that if I stop, I'll be fried or eaten or something even worse. The image of myself getting caught in the wall of fire, skin bubbling and blistering from the heat as I'm literally burned to a crisp flashes before my eyes and I let out another shout of terror before attempting to sprint even faster from the dragon, mind unable to come up with any plans or strategies other than, _Run! Run as fast as you can!_

Still, despite the panic attack my brain is having, one thought does manage to make itself clear between the whirlwind of other frantic shouts. _Shouldn't have gone to look at the hole. Definitely should not have gone to look at the hole._

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><p><strong>Malia Endal, District 12 Male<strong>

"Pair from Twelve, right?" The girl from Two smirks. "Yes, that's right. The miners. Well, certainly minor players in these Games." She twirls her sword casually. "Should be pretty easy to dispatch of you."

"I wouldn't be so sure," I say, my grip tightening around the hammer's handle. It's all a bluff of course; the hammer is lying with the head on the ground and the shaft sticking straight in the air – as of yet I haven't had to lift it at all. And I'm hoping I won't have too; while I may be physically strong for my size, I in no way have enough muscle to lift the weighty weapon, let alone swing it.

The presence of the weapon causes Rhine to pause slightly, but it's so quick that I begin to doubt she ever hesitated in the first place. "Really? You're going to attack me with that?" She snorts. "I bet it weighs more than you do. Now, you're district partner on the other hand," she adds, her green eyes darting over to my ally, who tries his best to stare her down and seem intimidating; an act that might have worked were he not pale as a sheet and barely suppressing the tremors in his body just from the effort to sit upright. "What's the matter with you, Muscles? Feeling a bit under the weather?"

Noah doesn't bother to dignify her with a response, merely meeting her smirk with a glare. For a second, I allow myself to take my eyes off of our largest threat, and turn instead to the other Career ally with Rhine; the girl from One. She stares straight out over the cliff, not looking at any of us, but I can see she's not feeling entirely well either; she holds herself in a stiff, upright position that I never noticed before, as though all of her muscles have been tensed to breaking point, and she seems to be nearly as pale as my ally. Though why, I can't tell; she doesn't seem to have any noticeable injuries.

"Tell you what," Rhine says, and I pull my gaze away from her ally. "Since I'm an extraordinarily _just_ person, I'll give you a fair fight." My eyes widen and even her district partner seems surprised, flashing her ally a look which she ignores, still keeping her eyes locked on Noah, him trying to figure out what she's planning and her waiting for his answer, keeping a smirk on her face to mask any other sorts of emotions from coming through. It's then that I realise her offer isn't directed to me, and for the briefest second I feel a flash of relief; though it disappears quickly as I become disgusted that I ever thought I could be glad she wanted to fight Noah instead of me."That is, if you're up for it."

"I am." Despite the fact that it's the last thing on Earth I wanted to respond, it comes out in a relatively confident tone. "I'll fight."

Rhine glances at me, amused. "Listen, kid, this isn't like the reapings. You can't "volunteer as tribute." Besides, how fair would it be if I fought someone half my size?"

I glare at her; she might be taller but I'm _not _half her size. And just as I open my mouth to respond as such, I'm interrupted by my district partner. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Wha-?" I turn to Noah, who's still glaring at Rhine, that determined look in his eyes again, though it's dulled by the pain I know he must be in right now. "No!"

"If this decision-making takes any longer, I'm just going to slice both of your heads off and be done with it," Rhine says, making a big deal of seeming exasperated as she throws her ally an irritated look that seems to say, _can you believe them?_

I clench my fists and take a step towards her, not really thinking about what I'm doing, and spit out, "If you're going to act this casual about killing, maybe you shouldn't be bothering at all."

She glances at me and I take another step forwards, but my attempted intimidating walk towards her is cut short as she lazily points her sword in my direction. "Can it, kid. It's the Hunger Games; do you really expect words to help you walk away from this fight? I'm offering your district partner a chance most Careers would never give out; you going to take it or leave it?"

"Take it." I turn back to Noah, still watching the sword out of the corner of my eye, but my fear of Rhine quickly takes second place to my worry for my ally, as I watch him brace himself against a rock and slowly push himself into standing position, more blood staining the bandages and making him sway on his feet, barely able to stay up. I want to run to him, but I stop myself as our eyes meet; no words pass between us but I can see the message as clear as day. _When they're distracted, get out of here as quickly as possible._

_No!_ I want to shout, but he's already moved on from me, his gaze meeting Rhine's again as she smirks and raises her sword. "Going to grab that hammer of yours or are you planning on just using your bare hands to tear me apart."

His glare hardens and he places a hand on his weapon, but it seems more as though he's using it as a sort of crutch to help stay on his feet rather than as something to defend himself with. _He's just going to be a standing target,_ I think, horror bubbling up inside of me as I begin to get the same feeling I had when I saw him fighting Precious; the need to do something, help him in some way. But as before, I'm paralysed and powerless to stop whatever Rhine has planned. _Please, _I think frantically as the Career girl raises her sword while Noah doesn't even seem to have the energy left to lift the hammer. _Someone, anyone, we need something. Please._

And that's when the fear-crazed, shouting boy from Ten sprints straight out forest, barrelling straight into Rhine and knocking her to the ground.

"What in the-" Rhine starts, rising to grab her sword and whirling around to face the boy. "Running swiftly to death?" she asks, trying to regain some of her former attitude, but the boy doesn't listen, attempting to scramble to his feet in some sort of frantic panic, though his efforts are cut short as the girl stomps her foot down into his stomach, effectively kicking the breath clean out of him and keeping him down. "You have an answer for me, boy?"

"D-d . . ." He coughs, trying to get the air back into his lungs. "Dra-"

But whatever his answer is, she never gets to hear it. Startled that my prayer for some sort of distraction actually worked, I jump forwards without thinking and tackle Rhine back to the ground, trying to wrestle the sword from her grasp. Out of the corner of my eye I see her ally hesitantly string an arrow into her bow, but the two of us are rolling all over the place and there's no way she could get a clear shot. At least until Rhine lands a concussive blow to face, followed swiftly by a kick which sends me rolling off of her. I grit my teeth, feeling the area around my cheek already swelling, but still manage to push myself upright and prepare to lunge at her again only to have the tip of her steel blade dig uncomfortably into my chest. "_Don't_," she begins, jabbing the sword into my skin and drawing blood, "Try that again."

The pressure increases on the point and I step backwards but really, it's pointless. Noah shouts something unintelligible as Rhine pulls back the sword, ready for the final strike, just as Calican finally seems to manage getting the air back into his lungs. Oddly enough, it's his shout I hear loud and clear, right before the deafening roar booms through the arena and we're covered in shadow as something enormous blots out the sun.

"Dragon!"

* * *

><p><strong>Cordelia Schylla, District 1 Female<strong>

Every moment since that sixth cannon went off, signaling the death of the girl from Five, I've felt . . . numb. I wouldn't even be able to say what's gone on in the days since then. It's like I retreated into my own little world, filled with swirling emotions that I had neither the courage nor the will to confront. I tried building a sort of veil between me and the sadness and, more importantly, the guilt, hoping that it might help, that I continue without seeming to feel anything. But all it did was mute the pain; and only just. In the end I just sort of accepted the fact that I'm going to be locked in this cage of awfulness for the foreseeable future. Nothing can snap me out of it.

"Cordelia, I've asked you the same thing five times now, if you're not going to answer me then at least come up with some sort of riveting explanation as to why."

But apparently Rhine hasn't gotten the memo.

She turns to me, sword in her belt and hands on her hips, blocking me from continuing down the path we've been forging through the forest. "What is wrong with you anyways? Look at me, I've killed someone and I don't feel bad at all!"

Even just the word 'killed' sends the images flashing before my eyes; the girl from Five, her head twisting at an unnatural angle, the arrow piercing straight through her skull. If it stopped there, I might be able to handle it; I'm a Career after all – I'm supposed to have trained for things like that. No, the image that gets me isn't one in my memories; it's fresh out of my imagination. Myself, face impassive as stone, mercilessly pulling back the arrow and letting it fly into the head of my own friend, my Bree, while Caspian watches from the side, seemingly unable to do anything but sob and scream accusations at me.

" . . . Wow, I don't believe it; you're not even listening to me as I lecture you about paying attention. Do your teachers feel this bad whenever you walk into class? It's like talking to a brick wall. Earth to Cordelia, pick up the phone, turn the lights on, get that brain into action. I know it's hard with your tiny attention span but if you could _just_ focus on me for _five_ minutes we might be able to get something done. You got that? Cordelia? Oh good lord, I think this may be worse than the perkiness; remember me? Rhine Carson, your ally, fellow Career, friend-"

"What?" Even in my dazed stupor, the word still manages to pierce my brain and get me thinking slightly straighter.

Rhine throws up her hands. "Hallelujah, I have made contact with the life form. Hello, Cordelia," she continues, speaking slowly as though I'm an infant. "Are you there?"

"Friend?"

"Well, she appears to be making no sense whatsoever but hey, at least she's talking," Rhine continues to no one in particular.

"You said I was your friend."

"What?" She turns back to me and for the first time in what's felt like a lifetime, I meet someone's eyes as she stares at me. I almost flinch away; each time I've been avoiding gazes, worrying that they'll hold the same looks that both Bree and Caspian have in my nightmare image – accusing, furious glares. But none of that is in Rhine's gaze; granted, she looks irritated – she always is – but not as though she's . . . accusing me of doing anything bad. _Because you didn't, _part of my brain speaks up, the reasonable part that's been trying to be heard for days. _You just did what you're trained to do. Nothing wrong with that._

Still, the voice doesn't do anything to stop the immense amount of guilt weighing down on me, but I do hesitate for slightly longer before sinking back into misery. But before I go back to my own personal world of horrors, and feel the need to set something straight. "You were saying that you were my ally, my fellow Career and my friend."

Rhine pauses, seeming to go over the conversation in her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I can feel the clutches of depression wanting to wash over me, but for the first time in four days, I fight it. "Those were your exact words."

"Cordelia, if you're going to talk nonsense like this, _please_ go back to depressed silence. I think I preferred that."

"Then why'd you try so hard to start a conversation?" The question pops out of my mouth without my even thinking about it, but as I remember the past few hours of our trekking through the forest in search of more tributes, I realise that it's true. Rhine, for all her irritation at me on the first night of Career hunting for trying to chat, has been trying to get me to talk for the past two hours. What she had been saying had been completely lost on me while I was immersed in the horrifying images of myself murdering my friends, but I definitely remember her talking.

"I think maybe we should rest; if you're feeling delusional, you probably shouldn't be attempting to hunt tributes. You might accidentally mistake me for an opponent and try to shoot me." She rolls her eyes and continues moving ahead, until she realises that I've stopped, though not to rest from my "delusions." Her words have just brought more pangs and waves of guilt surging through me. "Cordelia?"

"I wouldn't shoot a friend," I murmur, quietly enough that she has to strain to hear it. But it doesn't matter whether she catches the words; they're not meant for her. If anything, they're more meant to try and convince myself, to make those awful images of Bree's death at my hands disappear. "I never would."

For a moment, we stand in silence, Rhine staring at me while I look down at the forest floor, once again trying and failing to block out the unpleasant emotions. "You consider me a friend?"

I glance up at Rhine, whose smirk has for once disappeared, replaced by a look of almost . . . surprise. "We're in an alliance together, aren't we?"

She snorts in derision and immediately her expression changes, turning back to one that much more commonly found on her. "That doesn't mean we have to like each other."

I just shrug in response, but then eye her carefully. "Besides, you did say I was your friend."

Her eyes do their customary roll as she waves her hand. "Slip of the tongue. An absolute mistake; really Cordelia, you should know that I don't-"

"So you admit to saying it then?"

She stops again, realising that she just contradicted her earlier words and glares at me and unconsciously, the corners of my mouth begin to twitch up in a small smile. "Yes, I definitely liked it better when you were silent. Go back to that please." And with that, she whirls around and continues hacking her way through the forest, as though each tree is a personal affront to her. I just shake my head slightly and begin to follow her, realising that it's been ages since I've smiled – my cheek muscles have already gotten out of practice and are complaining of the soreness it costs them. But at the same time, it feels kind of . . . nice. It's funny though, I never thought that Rhine, of all people, would be the one to make me grin.

Soon enough, the forest begins to give way to some sort of barren, rocky terrain, and it's easy to spot the two tributes in the distance. Rhine quickly steps behind one of the larger boulders nearby and I follow suite, watching her quickly wipe off the leaves and tree bark that stained her blade as she used it to get us through the forest. "Ready for this?" she asks, a smirk on her face as she peers over the rock to the two tributes in the distance. "It might be a bit of a chase if they see us too soon, but you can just pick them off with your arrows and . . ." She stops short as I pale slightly, remembering the weapon in my own hand, the quiver full of flying death strapped to my back. I'm going to have to use them again. To kill. _But it won't be Bree this time, _the reasonable part of my brain says, speaking up again. _It's two nameless tributes._ Yeah, but what if we find out their names? What if it's Caspian? Or even Michael? Would I be able to kill the person who bears my own father's name?

"Or I could just charge at them with my sword and claim the kills for myself." I blink slowly, the images of my friends and father fading once more as Rhine's face swims back into view. "If you'd prefer that."

I stare at her, uncomprehendingly. Does she really mean it? "Yeah," I say quietly, nodding my head. "That, um, that might be better."

"Two kills for me than. Whoo," Rhine says, twirling her finger in the air. Her grip tightens on her sword and she goes to take a step out from behind the rock, but before she can, she glances back at me first. I'm not trembling or anything, but I'm sure that I'm looking pretty pale. _Get a hold of yourself,_ part of me says. _You're a Career!_ "Cordelia?"

"Mm?" I say, half paying attention to her while the shouted argument rages through my brain.

"Oh good, thought I'd lost you _again_. You really do have the attention span of a squirrel." She rolls her eyes and I try a half-smile for her sake, tightening my grip on the weapon I really don't want to use. But Rhine's still talking; I guess once I stopped she must have decided to pick up the habit. "You know, if you keep sinking into this weird depression state and acting like killing someone is a terrible thing, _I_ might even start feeling bad soon."

That catches me off guard. "You might feel bad?"

"What? No, of course not." I raise an eyebrow and she continues casually, "What I meant was that I might, er, not enjoy it . . . as much. But only slightly." I just continue to gaze at her, expecting more of an answer, but she just turns around quickly and says, "Oh, look, it's the people we should be killing right now. We should probably be getting to that, shouldn't we?"

What follows is our confrontation with the pair from Twelve, the girl's efforts to make it seem as though she could fight us off, and then Rhine's totally unexpected offer. I glance at her sharply, wondering what she means by it or what she's planning, but she seems determined to not meet my gaze as she holds that of the boy, Noah. He also seems confused, determinedly analysing her as though the answer lies somewhere in her smirking green eyes.

The two allies argue about the deal being given to them and who should fight before Rhine lazily makes a comment about just chopping off both of their heads, sending an amused glance towards me and in the moment we make eye contact I see something that her cocky expression doesn't entirely hide. She quickly breaks the gaze and turns back towards her victims, but it gets me thinking. _What was that about? Does she- does she feel bad about killing two defenceless people without giving them a chance? Rhine, the ultimate master of sarcasm, the girl who murdered the boy from Nine without batting an eye, does she actually have a conscience?_

Maybe; maybe not. But whatever it is, I guess that you learn something new about your ally every day. I wonder if she would have just killed them with no hesitation anyways. But I never get to find out, because that's when the boy from Ten comes running in, Malia attacks my ally and then, with an earth-shattering roar, the dragon comes into view.

* * *

><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

"Alright, I'm here. Like I said earlier, I would _much_ prefer to be out there hunting down the tributes, but I guess everyone needs a break from babysitting." Meredith smirks at Rowan but he doesn't even acknowledge it; that finally gives her the hint to analyse the both of us and see something wrong. "What is it?"

"No idea," I murmur, not really paying attention. "But some sort of wall of fire just erupted over there."

Her brow furrows and she looks out towards where both of our gazes are fixed, just in time to see another pillar of flames come bursting forth from somewhere in the forest below. For a moment, even she's startled into silence; then, of course, she laughs. "Really? That's it? Exactly how long of you two been watching that thing?" She rolls her eyes. "It's probably just a Gamemaker trap that some stupid tribute stumbled into. Our only concern should be the fact that someone else is dying and it's _not_ by our hands. Or rather, hand in certain cases." She smirks at Rowan who finally tears his gaze away from the fire and glares at her.

"Trust me, I can kill just as well as you can with only one."

"Really? Because I don't think you've done _any_ killing since your injury."

He grits his teeth. "Unfortunately, _you_ two keep getting in my way."

"Yes, and now we're stuck babysitting you and watching pathetic Gamemaker traps. I've got to hand it to you," she says, grinning maliciously. "You sure know how to spend your time wisely."

Rowan's fist clenches and he stands, halving the distance between Meredith and himself in seconds. "I really don't think you want to keep-"

"Enough," I say firmly, recovering from my shock as I watched the _real_ cause of the fire emerge. "We've got bigger things to worry about."

Meredith smirks. "Like that little Gamemaker's trap?"

"Yes, actually. And if you paid any attention to it, I think you'd see that it could quickly become a problem."

The two of them frown, then slowly turn away from each other and back out towards where the fire used to light up the air. But now it's been replaced by a giant winged creature as dark as night, quickly racing over the forest in pursuit of what I can only imagine is a tribute with the absolute _worst_ luck in the arena. As we watch, the dragon lets out another roar, faint due to the amount of distance between us and it, but loud enough to still chill me to the bone.

Beside me, Meredith lets out what has to be the most arrogantly casual sigh that could be used in this situation. "I _knew_ if we didn't find someone to murder soon they'd push us together. Should have let me kill Rowan when I had the chance." He glares at her and steps forwards again, but I quickly push them both away, sighing slightly on the inside. You'd think that with this new, terrifying development in the arena, they'd at least be able to stop fighting for _five_ minutes. But apparently not.

"Seriously you two; _stop_. We have bigger problems right now." I eye them both sternly, briefly wondering if this is what parenting feels like. Oh, dear lord; how do the fathers of Meredith and Rowan even manage?

"Fine," Meredith says, grinning evilly at Rowan one last time before stepping down. "So what do you suggest we do, Mr Career Leader?"

The sarcasm dripping from the last two words would be hard for anyone to miss; I bristle slightly, then respond back, trying to keep my tone level. "Well, we are _co-leaders_. What do _you_ suggest?"

She grins despite my own sarcasm, making me instantly regret offering for her to choose a strategy. "I was so hoping you'd ask," she says, stepping away from Rowan and I and walking to the edge of the tower before turning back. "Well, come on! We're not going to stay up here and miss the party!"

"Party?" Rowan says skeptically, and I have to admit I agree with him on this one.

"Of course," Meredith says, reaching to her belt and grabbing a weapon I'd never seen on her previously. She snaps the whip in the air once, grinning as both of us take an unconscious step back to avoid being hit. "It's going to be _fun_!"


	36. In the Face of Death

_**Holy cow, this was one long chapter to write! Even if there were only 2 POVs used. I don't believe this, I split the bloodbath into two parts with the express purpose of making things easier on you guys, and then I go ahead and publish a chapter that's nearly 10 000 words long anyways. Sorry 'bout that :) I'm really hoping that things don't seem rushed in this chapter (I know, rushed despite it being 10 000 words long), since a lot of this was written at late, late hours - actually never mind, my clock here reads 1am. So make that really, really early hours :) I just really wanted to get this thing finished for you guys. Anyways, hope it's alright, I know this chapter was sort of built up to a lot and I'm hoping it lives up to expectations! :)**_

_**Oh, and thanks to the suggestions for the dragon's name :) I mentioned them all, but finally settled on choosing one that I think might be one of my all-time favourite dragon names. If you get the reference, I will love you forever :) If you don't, well, watch Stargate SG1. Most. Amazing. TV. Show. Ever. :D**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Noah James, District 12 Male<strong>

Oddly enough, the first thought that popped into my head when we were confronted by the two Careers was the fear that Malia might get hurt, or worse, killed. I guess after living with the torturous injury given to me by Precious for three days, I'd somewhat come to terms with the fact that I might not make it out of this arena alive. Don't get me wrong, I still desperately wanted to get back to my family and, most of all, my little brother, but after during my pain-induced hallucinations I'd suffered throughout the day where I'd been, for the most part, out cold, I'd decided that even if I didn't make it out, if Malia won in my place, Gabriel would still be alright. After all, our district would receive the food parcels no matter which of us emerged a Victor; but most importantly, we'd both agreed to watch out for the other's younger brother if they didn't live. So he'd be fine. Gabriel would be fine.

"_Don't give in," he pleads, the sole visible figure amidst the shadows that surround me. "Please Noah, you can't!"_

"_It hurts," I whisper, the words barely able to leave my mouth in between moans of agony. "Gabriel . . ."_

"_No, you said you'd win! And then you'd come home and we'd have a huge party and you'd be safe! Mom always taught us to keep our promises and you promised!"_

"_But my injury-"_

"_Don't worry," he says, dropping to his knees beside me. "You always took care of me when I was sick, and now it's my turn." He brushes a hand across the gaping wound in my side, and is it my imagination or is the pain lessening slightly? "Just hang in there, and I'll help you. Or at least," he adds, smiling, "someone will."_

_He looks up and some sort of shining light appears, bringing with it the face of an angel as she looks down upon me; an angel with brown hair and very familiar blue eyes. "Noah?" she calls out to me, her voice intermingling with that of my brother's as he begins to talk again, the two of them speaking in sync. "Come on, Noah, wake up. Don't die on me; do not die on me."_

"_Sure thing," I whisper, my mind slowly kicking back into action as I try to forget about the pain, instead focusing on the images of my saviours. "Sure thing, Gabriel."_

Of course, I'd been out for a while, and there'd been plenty more fevered dreams, most of which I barely remember, but that one's stuck with me since I first woke up shortly after having it. My brother may not have been there for me in the arena but I knew that far, far away back in Twelve, he was sitting at home with our parents, eyes glued to the TV screen and praying for me to make it. The thought ignited some sort of determined fire within me, a resolve to keep pushing forward no matter how much pain I was in. Whether it was Malia or I who made it out of the arena didn't matter as much anymore; as long as it was one of us who lived. And I had to be there, helping us the entire way in order to ensure that that was the outcome of these Games.

However, no matter how much dream-Gabriel reassured and aided me, he couldn't help the fact that I could barely stand on my feet, much less fight the District 2 girl when she'd offered me the choice. And it was in that moment that I'd realised that it seemed as though I wouldn't be the one who left the Games alive. With it came a terrible sadness, but I'd had to push it aside, use the chance I'd been offered to distract the Careers so that Malia might be able to get away and emerge victorious in the end.

At least until the boy from Ten had came, bringing with him the most terrifying monstrosity I'd ever seen.

"Malia!" I shout, attempting to run towards her and nearly passing out after the first step. But I can't let my injury get the better of me now; I _have _to get to her.

The girl from Two seems to have completely forgotten that she's nearly backed my ally off of the cliff with her sword; instead both she and District 1 female stare up in horror at the new mutt, before Calican seems to recover from having a foot crush down onto his chest, which might have potentially cracked a few of his ribs. Still, he manages to find the strength to shout out, "Run!" before taking off, the two Careers quickly following close behind. One might find it ironic that he's giving out survival advice to kids who probably wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but I figure that it's just the sort of thing you do automatically. Like when there's a fire and you shout, "Fire!" even if there's no one around to hear it.

Anyways, my guess might be wrong; not like I had much time to think about it. If you didn't notice, we sort of have bigger problems to worry about.

Malia reaches me before I manage to even take another step, half-dragging, half-pushing me over behind a large boulder nearby, just jumping behind herself as the area where the five of us previously stood erupts into raging flames.

The two of us huddle behind the rock as the dragon continues its deadly attack, the trembling body of my ally pressed so closely against me that I can feel every shudder she feels as though it's my own. Although, in some cases, it probably _is_ my own; Malia's getting me to cover, while saving my life, created a strain on my injury ten times worse than when I attempted to stand. I can feel the steady streams of blood trickling out from the bandage soon turn to rivers, my vision fading in and out from the combined burden of the pain and the intense heat blazing behind us. _Do not black out,_ I think, barely suppressing a cry of torment as a wave of agony consumes me like the dragon's fire consumes the rocky terrain behind us; and all it has to do is aim its inferno a few feet to the right in order to char Malia and me to crisps.

Just as I worry that the mutt will do exactly that, the stream of fire disappears; but of course, the two of us know better than to think that it means an end to the danger. Seconds later, a roar resounds through the arena, shaking the very ground with its cacophonous echoes as the dragon bellows furiously at the fact that all of its prey escaped. _Don't come for us, _I pray silently, trying to hold on to the thought despite the agony throwing my brain into disarray. _Please don't._

A giant rush of wind bursts down on us from above, the weight of the air so heavy neither of us can even manage to lift our heads and check where the thing is heading. But soon the pressure lifts and Malia jumps to her feet, glancing all around to try and find the mutt.

"Is it-" I begin.

"After the others," she confirms, and I try to rise, making it half-way before she has to catch and steady me, helping me to see over the top of our hiding rock, which is currently sizzling after having half of its face burned away by the scorching flames.

The dragon seems to have picked the moving tributes as its targets, and we watch as it lets out another roar before swooping down in front of them, landing with a resounding crash on the rocks and opening its mouth wide to shoot out another fiery blaze. Calican and Rhine jump to the left while Cordelia dodges to the right, loading an arrow as she does so and taking aim at the colossal beast. An arrow fires, soaring straight up and hitting home, piercing the flesh of the dragon's throat as it opens its mouth to roar again, instead only emitting a bellow of pain at the small, sharp projectile lodged inside. The giant teeth gnash together, but they only succeed in breaking the shaft of the arrow and shoving the head of the weapon in further, earning another roar of pain before it tries swiping a massive claw down at its attacker, but she's ready for it and dodges to the right, hand already reaching to the quiver at her back for another arrow.

"What do we do?" Malia asks frantically, tearing her gaze away from the horrifying scene and turning to me, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"Get away. As quickly as possi-" I'm cut off on the last word as tremor of pain wracks my body, a low groan of pain escaping from my mouth and causing the terror in my ally to make way for the newfound concern that fills her features, but I wave it off weakly. "I can make it; we just need to go. Now; while it's distracted."

She nods and glances back, just in time to see three figures emerge from the woods between us and the dragon, each one of them brandishing some sort of weapon. "The other Careers," Malia whispers and I nod, watching as the girl from Four doesn't hesitate to throw herself straight into the melee, wielding an axe in one hand and a whip in the other, which immediately elicits a response from the dragon as it cracks down across one of its four claws. "Do you think they can take it?"

"Even if they can, we still have to go; they'll come for us next." She nods and wraps an arm around me, careful not to touch my injury as we slowly begin to hobble out from behind the rock and towards the cover of the woods. _Too slow! _part of my mind shouts, but I try to calm the panicked thoughts. _We'll be fine; it's distracted with the others. We can get away._

I risk a glance over my shoulder, just in time to receive a full-blown blast of wind in my face as the thing flaps its wings and takes off once more, roaring in fury at the newcomers and their weapons, it's front claw covered with angry lash marks while blood drips from other points on its leg where it seems to have been stabbed with a trident. "What's happening?" Malia shouts over the bellow of the dragon, too intent on getting us to safety to take the time to look back.

I open my mouth to respond, but no words emerge, stuck in my throat by the fear of the situation. The monster snaps its teeth towards the ground before an arrow soars up from below, aiming for the leathery fabric of the wings but blown off course almost as soon as it's let loose, the wind caused by the dragon's flapping stopping it from getting too near. It seems to know what the goal of the weapon was though, and lets loose another bellow that quickly turns from animalistic roar to deafening crackle of flames as another torrent of fire shoots from its mouth. Everyone scatters behind whatever cover they can find, and as the tongues of flames lap at the rocky surface before slowly dying out, I wait for them to come back out and resume the attack on the beast. But nothing moves in the barren landscape, save for the gigantic monstrosity floating above us. It too seems to notice the sudden lack of prey running around and roars in annoyance, its massive head swivelling this way and that through the air as it tries to catch a glimpse of its earlier victims, more fire spewing forth from its mouth. Though it finds no one; wherever the Careers and Calican are, they seem to be perfectly happy to stay behind the rocks and have a few more seconds where they don't have to worry about fighting for their lives. Time's swiftly running out though; the dragon will land soon and start clearing away boulders and such that obstruct its view manually if it can't easily spy its targets from above. And there's no one around for it to see.

Except for us.

As soon as the thought hits, my insides seem to freeze, paralysed in fear as I look wildly around for some sort of cover. But we're nearing the forest, and while there are trees in front and rocks behind, we've reached the midway point where nothing exists to hide us. _Maybe it won't see us, though_, comes one thought out of my petrified brain. _We still have a chance._ But not if it hears us.

"Malia," I whisper quietly. "Stop moving."

"What?"

"Stop. Moving."

She freezes accordingly, still having no idea what's going on behind us and seemingly too terrified to glance back and take in the scene I currently watch, unable to tear my eyes away as the dragon blasts another small column of fire into the air in anger, its reptilian eyes still searching madly for signs of life. _Just don't turn around. Just don't turn around. Just don't . . ._

But before I can even repeat the prayer a third time, I watch the dragon crane its neck, one wing flapping more as it begins to turn itself towards us. Merely seconds are passing, but it feels as though it takes more than four lifetimes for the beast to slowly rotate through the air and finally catch a glimpse of us. Its eyes narrow and it flies closer, as though it's not entirely sure whether we're live prey or merely part of the landscape. Understandable, considering that the two of us aren't moving even to breathe, holding the air in our lungs and wishing more than anything we won't catch the attention of the mutt. Malia's probably still hoping for that; out of the corner of my eye I can see half of her pale face, eyes closed and lips moving in a soundless prayer. She has taken a glance back to seem the impending death flying closer and closer towards us, a gleam in its eye as it realises that we are, in fact, living beings. And there's nowhere for us to go; the cover of the forest is too far away and at the pace we've been going, we'd never make it. Not with my injury slowing us down.

We'd never make it.

But maybe alone, Malia might.

Unconsciously, my hand slips into the pocket of pants, fingers wrapping around the crinkled piece of paper that rests there. My note to Gabriel. District 12 has yet to have any previous victors, so I wasn't sure who to give it to to ensure it would get to my brother; at least until I asked our escort and she told me that I might as well keep it in the arena, since I didn't have another token. And I figured that it would work; even if I died, he'd be able to find it when they delivered my body back home. A morbid thought, certainly, but at least he'd get it. Now though, with the dragon bearing down upon us, its mouth beginning to crack open to unleash a fiery torrent of death, it seems like there might not even be a body left to deliver home to my brother, let alone my note. But I can't let that happen; I _need_ this, to get this to him, give him something to remember me by. And taking in our current situation, there seems like only one way for that to happen.

My district partner's eyes flash open as I push the note into her pocket, her blue eyes full of confusion as I stare into them, trying to get her to understand. "Run," I whisper to her. Her brow furrows before rising upwards, realisation filling her every feature as she begins to turn her head to take in the mutt. But she makes no move to leave, merely gasping in horror and the dragon behind us, the beginnings of a gigantic fire ball building in its throat.

"Go!" I shout, using my remaining strength to push her as far away as I can and causing my wound to reopen and bleed down my tribute uniform. Out of pain and exhaustion, I collapse to the ground, all of the energy fleeing my body in the form of the red rivers of blood running through the bandage. But it doesn't matter; it isn't like I'll need the strength to do anything more now. And as Malia whirls around, sprawled in a position a good eight feet away from me, our eyes meet one last time and she shouts something, trying to pick herself up and get back to me. It's too late though; for me, anyways. I'm done.

_I'm sorry, Gabriel,_ I think to myself. _I'm sorry I couldn't win this._ And as I bring my gaze back to my ally, who starts to take a step forwards, I manage to choke out one last word. "Aurevoir."

And then the world erupts into an endless, blazing inferno.

* * *

><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

"So we got a plan to kill this thing?" I shout over the roaring of the flames as the blasted dragon tries yet _again_ to burn us all to crisps. After doling out a painful and arduous beating that only seemed to make the thing annoyed, we wisely decided to employ our talents of stealth and sneak into the shadows while formulating an ingenious plan to get ourselves out of this mess.

Alright; so we were _hiding_. Hey, if you had a gigantic, supposedly fictional, fire-breathing beast after you, I'm pretty sure _you_ would take the cowardly approach as well.

"It's protected on the outside," Cordelia says next to me; after we found the thing to be much tougher than it looked (which was saying _a lot_), we both dove for cover behind the nearest boulder. Meredith, Perrin, Rowan and Calican presumably had done the same, though it was impossible to see them through the immense clouds of smoke filling the air around us. And let me tell you, the smell was _unbearable_. "Those gigantic scales are lessening the blows of our weapons."

I glance over at her; this mutt attack seemed to have remarkably changed her attitude. She'd finally snapped out of her sort of depression, and was keeping a remarkably cool head despite the imminent peril that we were in. It was a wonderful change . . . not that I'd care, of course. "So what do you suggest?"

"Target the stomach. Or the eyes."

I raise an eyebrow, mildly impressed that Cordelia, of all people, could come up with an idea that might actually work. "Surprisingly, that sounds like an alright plan." She throws me a look as if to say that I shouldn't be so surprised, but before she can actually say anything another blast of fire erupts behind us. "But, um, maybe we should wait a bit before attempting to execute it."

Cordelia nods at that and we both lapse into silence, nothing really to do but sit tight and listen to the scorching death searing the ground a few feet away from us. "You know, I should have prepared myself for something like this, since I volunteered and all," my ally says, seeming to have gotten back into her chatty habit. "But, I mean, I don't think anyone could have envisioned having to battle this, this _thing_. It's, well, it's pretty terrifying."

"Mm," I say, not wanting to blurt out anything like the fact that I was completely unprepared for an attack like this or that I've been currently trying not to have a complete, panicked melt-down ever since that thing flew into view. Had to maintain a cool, Rhine-like exterior, after all. So instead I settle with, "I think it needs a name."

She glances at me sharply. "What?"

"You want to keep calling it 'the thing?'"

"I really don't think this is the time to-" But she's cut off as some of the smog enveloping the area around us penetrates her mouth, seeping into her lungs and causing her to dissolve into a fit of coughing. Without really thinking, I reach out and thump her on the back a few times, until the hacking begins to die down. There's more silence for a bit, interrupted only by Cordelia's raspy breathing before she manages to choke out, "I think it might be gone."

"Fluffy."

"What?"

"No? Alright . . . Norbert." I glance over at her, the amused glint in my eyes meeting her disbelieving stare. Hey, we all of our ways of getting through terrifying situations. Sometimes acting arrogantly casual is the only way to go. "Bob?"

"Darrel."

"Darrel?"

If it weren't for the smoke messing up my vision, I swear I'd be able to see her blushing as she shrugs. "Darrel the dragon?"

I stare at her for a few more seconds before cracking a grin. "Sure, why not?"

She smiles too, then shakes her head. "I don't believe this; we're a few inches away from death and we're trying to pick out a name for our killer."

"Pretty much," I say, smirking slightly before my expression turns more serious. "It's been quiet for a while now, hasn't it?" Cordelia's small smile disappears too and she nods, before the two of us slowly rise and peer over the top of our protective boulder.

The smoke is still thick, but it slowly begins to clear up thanks to the lack of fiery attacks from the dragon. Even with a full cover of smog though, it'd be hard to miss the deadly pillar of flames that erupt from the dragon's mouth, heading right for a solitary figure collapsed on the ground that I can just barely make out as the boy from Twelve. It would also be pretty hard to miss the tortured scream that comes from the girl's mouth as she watches her district partner burn alive in the inferno, her cries still somehow heard over the noise of the dragon's fire. The monster's attack stops just as the cannon booms, and after being assured that it has sufficiently killed its victim it turns on Malia, who seems to manage to pull herself together enough to dodge out of the way as the next wave of fire descends, before sprinting swiftly off towards the forest, now unburdened by her partner and his injury and thus making it swiftly to cover before the monster can attempt to char her as well.

"Enjoying the show, ladies?" Seemingly out of nowhere, Meredith appears behind us, a weapon in each hand and looking extremely annoyed. "Sorry to ask you two to get up and actually _do_ something, but we really should be making the most out of this opportunity."

"Exactly." Perrin materialises out of the smoke behind her with Rowan close behind. "It's distracted; let's fall back to the trees and try and come up with a plan from there."

"You mean, give up?" Meredith sneers. "Are you kidding?"

"I didn't say _give up_, but we need to-"

"No. We're finishing this, right here, right now."

"Are you-?"

"I have a plan," Cordelia pipes up, interrupting the two of them. "I figure it might work."

The two of them stop and turn towards our youngest ally, who begins to explain the idea of the dragon's weak point while I watch it torch the ground in irritation, seemingly thinking that Malia is still somewhere out on the barren landscape instead of safely away in the trees. Then, remembering us, it begins to turn back, letting out another roar of fury. "Might want to speed things up," I interject. "It looks like Darrel's coming back."

None of them have enough time to ask who in the world I mean by "Darrel," but Meredith seems to get it and nods. "Alright. Perrin, Rowan and Cordelia, get out there and start killing it. Rhine and I'll join you in a second."

Perrin frowns. "What will you be doing over here?"

"Discussing strategies." I raise an eyebrow as he narrows his eyes, earning a short sigh from Meredith. "Look, Perrin dear, I could explain it to you but honestly, you're losing your window of attack. Don't want to miss that, do you?" His frown deepens but after a glance at the dragon, which is now set on a course heading straight for us after spotting the mass of five people all attempting to hide behind one boulder, he merely gets up and leads the other two off, throwing his district partner a glance as he goes. She just waits until they're out of earshot and focusing once more on the dragon before turning back to me. "So, you want to talk strategies with me?" I smirk. "I'm honoured, but don't you-"

"Shut up," Meredith says swiftly. "We're not talking strategies; I'm sending you off on an errand."

"Excuse me?"

"Boy from Ten." She nods her head behind her, where I can just barely see Calican slowly moving backwards, attempting to get back to the forest without the dragon noticing. "Get him."

I look at her in disbelief, the idea that we're here fighting for our lives against some massive beast and she's worrying about some random tribute who is in no way a threat to us seeming completely stupid in my mind. "Are you kidding me?" She says nothing, continuing to stare at me with cold blue eyes holding no hint of this being a joke. "Um, hello, giant dragon out here?" I roll my eyes. "Get your priorities straight."

"I _am_. You seem to be forgetting, Rhine, that the main goal of the Hunger Games is to kill off the other tributes. Letting him get away would most certainly _not_ be helping with that goal."

"So while the others are out there fighting that monster, you want me to go kill that scrawny kid from Ten."

"No, not kill him." I raise an eyebrow skeptically. "I've got a little, ah, _score_ to settle with him." She grins, but the expression is in no way a happy one; the look in her eyes is maniacal, and I almost want to step back. "So find a way to save him for later. For me. Think you can do that?" She smirks at my expression and takes a few steps out from behind the rocks, readying her axe and whip. "So don't come join us unless you've got him taken care of, or you'll have to answer to me. And I can guarantee you, you won't like that." With that, she takes off towards the dragon, leaving me still in a state of shock, unable to even ask _how_ she expects me to "save him for later." I nearly shudder at the thought of what she wants to do with him after that point, but quickly snap myself out of it. _Enough Rhine; you're a Career. Quit getting all soft and act like it!_ _You're behaviour has been absolutely unacceptable lately!_ It's true, really; accidentally saying that I was "friends" with Cordelia, offering the boy from Twelve a fight – even if that could hardly have been considered fair because of his condition. _Now pull yourself together and quit acting like your wishy-washy sister!_ I shake my head slightly, trying to clear it of all non-Careerish thoughts and quickly take off in the direction of Calican, gripping my sword tightly and alternating between scolding myself and figuratively rolling my eyes at Meredith and her crazy plans. Honestly, even if we are the Careers, do you not think that this might be a bit of a bad time to be worrying about killing off everyone else?

My target doesn't see me coming until I'm too close for him to do anything. I take a swing at him with my sword and he ducks, straightening up just in time to receive another kick to his already delicate midsection, and I swear I can hear a few ribs crack as I slam my forearm into his collarbone and force him against the nearest boulder. "What are you doing?" he manages to gasp. "Do you not see the giant dragon?"

"I know," I say, twirling my sword casually in my other hand. "Trust me, this isn't my idea. But apparently you're supposed to be saved for later." His eyes widen instantly but he only gets a second to take in the meaning of my words before I slam the hilt of my sword into his temple, effectively knocking him out. I release to fabric of his uniform and allow the unconscious body to slide to the ground, wondering what exactly I'm supposed to do now. I could just leave, but he might wake up; so what, should I pile rocks around him and make a cage? "Yeah; _great_ plan, Meredith," I mutter to myself. "Complete waste of my time, thank you very much." I glance down at Calican, half-wondering if I should just slit his throat and deal with Meredith afterwards . . . though thinking about it like that, I decide against; I'm pretty sure no one wants to "deal with Meredith" in these Games. But still, it seems rather ridiculous to spare his life just so she can have fun killing him slowly later; that's not being a Career, that's being arrogantly stupid. Still, I guess it's not up to me to make the decisions; I sigh at the thought that are alliance would do so much better if someone else was calling the shots (coughcoughmecough) and turn back to see how the rest of our alliance is doing with the dragon fight just in time to see something that makes my mouth drop open in horror.

I guess trying to get at the beast's stomach was too difficult, since it resumed its position on the ground and decided to attack our allies from there, soft belly completely protected unless someone was feeling particularly suicidal and decided to try and run _under_ the dragon. But whatever the reason, they seem to have chosen to target the second weak spot. I thought when Cordelia meant hit the eyes, she was just going to shoot an arrow at it or something, like the first time. Though I guess I hadn't taken into consideration the fact that the dragon might actually be _learning_ while we attacked it, not falling for the same tricks twice in a row. Maybe she had tried shooting at it again, but it had knocked the projectile away with a claw, or just burned it into nonexistence. But whatever the case, she'd apparently decided that shooting arrows wasn't going to work. So she was _climbing on the back of the dragon._

"Crap!" I shout, completely forgetting about the boy from Ten and leaving his unconscious body behind the rocks while I take off in the direction of the dragon, watching my ally clinging madly to one of the many spikes that line its back as she tries to hold on, slowly but surely edging her way up the monster's neck. _What is she doing? _I think furiously, my arms pumping wildly as I sprint back towards my allies. _She's going to get herself killed!_

Not that I'd care, of course. But, you know, it wouldn't . . . send a good message about our alliance if one of the Careers died doing such a stupid thing.

Yeah, that's it.

"What the hell is she doing?" I demand as I reach Meredith, who's just completing a backwards roll after having given the dragon's leg a pretty hard lashing and dodging out of the way before its foot slammed to the ground at the place where our leader had been not moments before.

"Obeying the plan," she says, brushing a bit of ash off of her uniform. "Did you get the boy from Ten?"

I stare at her, trying to convey as much disbelief and skepticism as I can in one glance. "Does it matter? What about the dragon? Why is Cordelia trying to climb it?"

"She suggested that part herself, actually," Meredith says, grinning as I glance upwards again to watch our youngest ally nearly tumble to the ground before managing to get a good grip on the tips of the dragon's horns; she's nearly to the top. "We tried heading for the stomach but, well, that didn't exactly work out." She nods her head over to where Perrin and Rowan are attacking the monster with their respective weapons, trying to distract it from noticing the little sixteen year-old climbing up it. Upon a closer analysis though, I see that Perrin's blue shirt is drenched in red, one arm attempting to cover the nasty looking claw mark slashed diagonally across his chest while the other continues to wield the trident, trying to fight as though the injury were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Say what you will about our leader, but he can be pretty perseverant. "After my district partner failed to get at the stomach," Meredith continues, smirking slightly at her ally before turning back to me. "We decided to target the eyes. Blasted thing was too smart to stand there and wait to get hit by any flying ammunition so we were forced to find . . . other methods of injuring it up there."

"And aren't you our leader? Why aren't you up there doing it?" I ask wildly, my grip on my sword tightening slightly as I watch Cordelia begin to make the perilous journey across the head, using the two horns to balance her.

"Because I'm the best fighter and it's a waste of my talents trying to get up there." She smiles and strokes the whip with an almost loving touch that makes me want to throw up. "I'm better down here _distracting_ it. Which is a job you might also want to help us with. You know, if you're not _too_ busy."

I make the wise decision to ignore her sneering tone rather than respond with one of my own sarcastic remarks (because let's face it, if Meredith and I chose to have an insult battle, it would most likely go on for _ages_), instead merely drawing my sword and sprinting towards the dragon. Because whatever hare-brained job our female leader had put Cordelia up to, it most likely would _not_ work, and therefore I had to be there to make sure my ally didn't get herself killed.

Even though I wouldn't care if she died. Totally wouldn't.

Since Meredith and the boys already seemed to have the front legs covered, I figured my best choice would be to race _around_ the monster and hit it at the back. The blurred images of the mutt's thick hide flashed by me as I sprinted to the opposite side, grabbing my sword and, acting on impulse, digging it into the beast and dragging it down with me as I ran. What normally should have sliced through a large swath of the monster's flesh only managed to chip a few of the scales that covered the dragon like some sort of giant, impenetrable shell, but at least it did seem to annoy the thing; I risk a glance back to see a giant head turning to glare angrily at me, opening its mouth and not hesitating to send a scorching blast of fire my way, forcing me to dive to the side in a rather poor imitation of Meredith's earlier roll but saving me from getting burned to a crisp all the same. As I dodge out of the way, I notice the fact that the fire doesn't seem to hurt the monster at all, despite the fact that tongues of flame still lick at the side of its hide. Great; it's fire-resistant too. Is there anything that can hurt this thing?

As soon as the flames dies down I pick myself up and whirl around, preparing to have to dodge yet another wall of fire, but it seems the others are doing their jobs well; whatever they're doing, the dragon seems to have decided that they're currently the bigger threat, and gone back to dealing with them. I glance upwards to see how Cordelia's doing, and my heart skips a beat as I watch her dangling over the side of the dragon's face, body flailing wildly as she hangs on to the ragged flesh of its ears by the tips of her fingers. Having the monster twist its head to face me must have thrown her off more than I'd originally planned. Though I see the worst consequence a moment later as the beast pauses in its fight with Perrin, Meredith and Rowan, one paw lifting off of the ground slightly as though it means to rub its face and figure out what the annoying irritation hanging there is. Maybe it couldn't feel her when she was hanging onto the horns, but apparently these ears are a different story; unless someone can provide a more . . . _annoying_ distraction. Well, make way for Rhine, the queen of irritating others.

"Oi! Darrel!" I shout, gripping my sword in my hand and running forwards to stab the blade into his foot. Unfortunately, these _freaking_ scales seem to everywhere, and it's not exactly easy to try and kill something that has rock-hard skin. _Where can I hurt you, _I think, gazing up and down at the beast's massive body. _Where can I-_

Ah. _That's_ where.

I charge over to the very end of the dragon, passing the back legs as I come to a stop staring at the sight before me; a massive tail, the continuation of the monster's spinal column, curls around the various rocks before disappearing over the edge of the cliff face. An evil grin begins to form on my face as I realise that, like the dragon itself, the top half of the tail is covered in scales while the bottom is less protected. But unlike the actual beast, this part isn't protected by four lethal claws and a monstrous fire-breathing head. In fact – I turn, checking to make sure that the dragon's full attention is still on my other three allies, while Cordelia climbs the ear to make it back to the top of the head – little, old Darrel isn't paying _any_ attention to what's going on behind him.

Excellent.

The ground seems to almost fly beneath me as I rush to the beginning of the tail, analysing the area where the thick, black scales stop and a more yellowy, fleshy colour begins, covering the entire underneath of the appendage. As a test, I prod part of the skin with the tip of my sword, not hard enough to draw the attention of the monster but just enough to test the strength of the flesh. It gives much more easily than the protective layer on the top of the dragon and I grin; well, _this_ should certainly get its attention.

Without warning, I plunge the blade into the dragon's tail, nearly smiling as it disappears all the way up to the hilt, thick gobs of black, shadowy blood dripping from the place where my sword entered, and I immediately twist the weapon this way and that, slicing it along the tail and deepening the cut, making sure that it feels _all_ the pain. Sure enough, a tortured bellow escapes from the dragon, and I turn towards the head, meeting the glare of the yellow eyes as they hone in on their attacker. Normally someone might be terrified if they were caught in the gaze of such a monstrous beast, but whether it's the adrenaline of the moment or the pride at the fact that I finally managed to wound the thing, all I feel is a rush of satisfaction, even smirking back at the dragon, waiting for it to open its mouth and let loose another torrent of fire. But I'm ready for it though; I can dodge any attack it throws at me. _Well, Darrel, _I think, smiling. _Consider yourself distracted._

The happiness of the moment continues to last for about two more seconds, during which time I begin to ponder why the monster hasn't opened its mouth to attack yet. That is, until something slams into my side with the force of a dozen Capitol trains and I fly through the air in an almost graceful arc, limbs flailing wildly before I lose momentum and start my plummet to the ground.

_Bend your knees, Rhine. _Despite the rising panic boiling inside of me, a distant memory comes to mind, of the time I had been running around the quarry mines and, like an idiot, tripped and fell off of a relatively high cliff, breaking my ankle in the process. It had been Rush who had found me, and even through the pain I snapped something at him about not telling me that I'd been a klutz, but all he did was just tell me what to do if it ever happened again. At the time, I'd dismissed his advice as "help" which I've always deemed is for losers, but still, his words stuck with me. _If you're ever falling from a really high place, hit the ground legs first. They're not as vital to your body as your tail bone or spine. Keep them loose, not locked, and try to relax to transfer less force to your vital organs during the hit. Land on the balls of your feet, protect your head, allow your legs to absorb the impact and try to roll out of it._

Through the tears springing to my eyes thanks to the wind whipping in my face, I manage to spot the rather hard, solid looking ground coming closer and closer at an alarming rate, and though my side is bruised and screaming in pain from where it was hit by what must have been the dragon's tail retaliating against my attack, I manage to try and get myself into the position my brother taught me. Head tucked in, arms overtop to protect it, try and land feet fir-

Suddenly, where there had been only air seconds before, rocks appear beneath my feet as I land with a sickening crunch on the ground, one leg hitting the land before the other and bending in a way that I'm pretty sure legs are _not_ supposed to bend, before the momentum tips me over and I try to roll as much as possible to absorb the impact, head still jolting and banging around on the ground despite the added protection of my arms. For a while, all I can see in the world are quick flashes of sky and rock, before I come to a stop a good ten feet from where I actually landed, one leg twisted at an impossible angle while the other feels only slightly better by comparison, aching and throbbing along with the rest of my bruised and battered body. A low groan escapes from my lungs, but I stop immediately when I realise that even making the slightest bit of noise positively _kills_. Maybe it would have been better to die from the impact after all; the cuts and bruises and other monumental injuries are just torture, half-making me want to just lay down here and wait for death to come to me anyways.

Though apparently I won't have to wait very long; another roar echoes through the arena and I crack one eye open, just in time to see the giant body of the dragon rearing up on its hind legs as it glares down at me from above, wings outstretched as though it might be ready at any moment to take flight. But it won't; it's here to make sure that I won't try a trick like that _ever_ again. So . . . is this it? Rhine Carson, who made Hunger Games history by being so hated in her district that nobody volunteered for her, that same Rhine Carson is going to spend her last few moments eye to eye with a dragon, collapsed on the ground with no strength to move, no energy to do anything but wait until the monster burns her to a crisp. That's the way I'm going to go. And even though it sounds awful, even though part of my brain is screaming at me to get up and run, I can't seem to make sense of any of the disjointed thoughts floating around in my mind. The fall must have knocked my head harder than I thought.

One thing does manage to penetrate my addled brain though; the sight of Cordelia, clinging to the ridge of the dragon's eyelid with one hand, an arrow in the other as she stares down at me, eyes wide in horror. But even that barely manages to register. _What's she doing up there? _I wonder, in a foggy daze that even the view of the opening mouth as the dragon prepares to eat me or burn me alive can't break. _Isn't that dangerous? Silly Cordelia, she could fall!_

You know when I use the word "silly" to describe anything, I've hit my head _way_ to hard.

There's a half a second where her eyes seem to flicker from the dragon, who seems to be savouring the fact that it's getting ready to kill the one tribute who actually managed to penetrate its armour, then back to me, still lying on the ground with at least one broken leg, if not two, and barely any idea what's going on at all. Then she steels herself, raising the arrow above so that its silver head seems to gleam in the dwindling rays of sunlight before it disappears, the tip plunging straight into the middle of the dragon's left eye.

If the mutt had thought it was in pain when I stabbed its tail, that was _nothing_ compared to the agony it must feel now, as it lets out a noise so different from its previous roars and bellows, a noise that can only be described as a cross between a high-pitched shriek and a whimper of pain. A shudder seems to run the entire length of its body and it takes a half-blind step forwards, whipping its head from side to side as though trying to dislodge whatever evil thing could have possibly deformed it so.

Yep, that's my ally. In fact, I think I'm almost proud of her.

Cordelia holds on tightly to the scaly head beneath her, and manages to regain her balance enough to wrench the arrow from the monster's yellow eye, now dripping with disgusting fluids I don't want to even try analysing further. But I have to admit, as I look up at her, riding the top of a dragon with the bloody, pus-covered arrow held aloft, she makes for a pretty impressive picture. Almost actually like one of those fairytales the Gamemakers based this place off of. The hero (or rather, heroine, in this case), placed against insurmountable odds, faces off against the deadly creature, winning the fight and saving hundreds of lives in the process (well, mostly just mine. But I figure that my life is probably worth at least seventy five lives of other more normal, pathetic tributes).

Though what happens next rudely awakens me from my little daydream, showing me that this is the Hunger Games, not some children's story. And here in the arena, there's never a happy ending.

Cordelia's glance darts to the other dragon's eye as she realises that merely stabbing it once won't help. Admittedly, hitting both eyes would only blind the beast, not kill it, but it would make it a hell of a lot easier to get the job done. The hand with the arrow comes down, not to attack this time, but to grip the top of the dragon's eyelid for support while the other lifts, preparing to help her shimmy down to the other side of the mutt's face and finish her job. But withdrawing the weapon seemed to have reawakened the monster's fury, and the roar that comes out of its mouth this time is not one of pain or torment, but one of pure, unadulterated rage. Quicker than any of us have seen the beast move so far, one claw reaches up and rakes the back of its head, not seeming to care whether it wounds itself, only caring to get a hold of its attacker. Cordelia.

I can hear her shout of surprise at the movement from all the way down here, but I'm powerless to do anything but watch as the dragon's teeth clash together in what could almost be considered a creepy, animalistic grin, its clawed talon finding the girl and giving her no time to run (not that she'd really have anywhere to go), wrapping around her slender figure and slamming her to the ground with an even more alarming burst of speed. I wince as the rocks tremble beneath me, aggravating my previous wounds but for once I pay them no attention, the horror of what's going on finally making sense in my addled brain. _That impact was bone-shattering. She never could have survived._

_Yes, she could have! _I think fiercely, trying to shout down the other, more pessimistic side of my brain. _She's a Career; she's trained for things like this, right? And . . . there hasn't been a cannon yet! Yes, she can handle it. She can handle it._

I don't know if the Gamemakers have rigged the mutt to wait for the loud bang that echoes through the arena to know whether or not its prey is dead, or if it can just tell, but when I inch my head slightly to the left to continue watching the scene, to somehow help Cordelia with the fact that I know what's going on, even though I can't do anything to stop it, all I can see is the massive beast glaring down with enough anger for its previous two eyes crammed into one, its gaze seemingly fixed on the claw it just slammed into the ground and the being caged within it. But unlike with me, where lifetimes seemed to pass between the moments where I was nearly killed by the dragon, it takes barely seconds for the mutt to open its mouth and let loose a torrent of white-hot flames from within.

"No!" I shout, shooting up into a somewhat sitting position leaning on one arm, ignoring the screaming complaints of aching muscles and broken bones. "Cordelia!" But my cry is lost in the roaring of the fire, only to be drowned out by the awful, final sound of a loud cannon booming across the arena. It can't be . . . is she . . .?

It's in a numb sort of shock that I watch the blazing pillar of flames cease, the dragon glaring down at what must now barely resemble a human figure in its claw, before letting out another brief roar of satisfaction and reaching down with mouth gaping wide, teeth poised above the ground before suddenly tearing into the flesh of what was once my ally and ripping it in half. The horror of the scene registers in my brain, but every instinct that tells me to get away, to cry, to shout in fear, to do _something_ is lost, leaving me even unable to tear my gaze away as the dragon sits back on its haunches, swishing the charred piece of the body from its prey through the air, splattering blobs of crimson blood everywhere around the desolate landscape. One comes flying out of the sky towards me, almost like some sort of twisted, gruesome raindrop, landing with a splatter on a rock nearby and sending a smaller spray of liquid off from the impact that manages to find its way onto the black material of my pants. And it's this little thing that holds my gaze; not the monstrous beast before me that still poses a distinct threat, not the shouting of my allies that seems to come from somewhere far away, but this tiny splash of life fluid, what used to make up a part of my ally, my fellow Career, my . . . friend. Cordelia Schylla. And now her blood is being scattered across the arena, body burned and torn to shreds; they won't even have anything to take back to her family.

A fog seems to settle over me, as though the smoke created by the dragon's fire has taken up a permanent residence inside my brain, clouding my thoughts and emotions. I hear another roar from the dragon and a shout that sounds distinctly like some sort of battle cry that Meredith might utter, looking up in time to see her taking full advantage of the dragon's position sitting on its back legs with its stomach exposed, cracking the whip mercilessly against the softer flesh of the mutt's underbelly. It roars in pain and for a second I think that it'll incinerate her too; it certainly seems to be debating the idea. But the relentless lashings of the whip don't give it time to think of any sort of plan of attack, and perhaps deciding that it's finally fought enough, the gigantic, leathery wings flap once more, lifting the creature into the sky, pausing only to allow it to shoot one more angry column of flame into the air before the dragon takes off over the arena, flying towards the small mountains that rest near the edges of the little ocean we first saw during the bloodbath from the tower. It's actually leaving.

Strong arms reach under my broken leg and back, causing me to wince as I'm lifted into the air, coming face to face with Perrin, features set grimly as he too watches the monster fly off. My eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds, during which I see many things in those sea green orbs; determination, sorrow, even the slightest bit of pity. And that's what makes me turn away. Because no one pities me. I couldn't care less about what just happened. The only things that bother me are my injuries. We Careers aren't supposed to get sad over the death of an ally. So I don't care.

It's not long before Meredith and Rowan join us, and we begin a slow, dreary walk back to the tower, past the burnt and charred scenery that lies all around us. I notice as we pass by a familiar rock that the unconscious body of Calican is no longer present; he must have woken up and scampered off before the fight was finished. My eyes wander over to Meredith, wondering how she'll take the news, but she and Perrin seem to be having some sort of silent conversation, and I get the feeling that he's telling her not to say anything to me, which rubs me the wrong way. What, is he trying to protect me? Please, I don't need the help. Help is for losers. Besides, who cares if one of our allies was just brutally murdered? I certainly don't. Not at all.

Oh, who am I kidding?

"So it's done," Rowan says, wiping his forehead as he stares out at the horizon, where we can just barely see the shadowy smudge of what must be the dragon flying off. "It's done."

No one answers his statement, but if I had the energy or was in the condition to, I most certainly would, with a biting insult or sarcastic remark thrown in there. Because unless 23 of those cannons go off and the voice of the announcer comes on to let everyone know who the winner of the 37th annual Hunger Games is, it _isn't_ done. And after the scene I just witnessed, the gruesome acts we saw committed by the horrors the Gamemakers created, I'm beginning to doubt that, if I even make it out of the arena alive, the Games will ever be done with me.


	37. Lying in Wait

_**WHOO! Looks like it's time for me to freak out about the review count again :D 300! Thank you everyone, you're all amazing!**_

_**Shorter chapter this time around, to give you guys a bit of a break after that MONSTER of a previous chapter :) But I've got my Games outline now and I think it's pretty safe to say that the action is NOT going to let up now. So if you haven't yet voted on the poll, I'd suggest you do before more people start dying :)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

It's starting. I should have anticipated this; no alliance lasts in the Games, least of all the Career Pack. But I was assuming that I would have finished planning by then, that I would have come up with some sort of trap to unleash before I set out on my own; it would have been a big help if I managed to take out some of the most powerful tributes in the arena. That was the idea; my entire strategy revolved around it. Everything was going so perfectly too; I should have known that sooner or later, it would all fall apart.

Should have, should have, should have; that's basically how each thought I've had has been starting since yesterday, when Code and I were out hunting and first heard the mutt's roar.

"_Holy-" Code starts to say as we both jump, our gazes frantically darting around the area in search for the source of the cacophonous noise. "What the heck was that?"_

"_I don't know," I say back, not really thinking about my answer; instead, my brain is frantically trying to push away the fear and focus on what we just heard, trying to narrow down possibilities. But really, considering the extremely animalistic tone of the bellow, it leaves no question as to what it was. "A mutt."_

"_What?" Code asks, though not so much in a What-I-Didn't-Understand-Could-You-Please-Repeat way; it's more in the way of What-I-Really-Hope-You're-Joking-Or-Crazy-Please-Say-Something-Else. His grip tightens on the dagger he holds and I mimic him, fingering the hilt of my knife. Though in reality, if anything were to jump out and attack us, his weapon would have skewered it before I could even have managed to unstrap the thing from my belt. "What do we do?"_

_I shake my head, trying to clear it of the plans and strategies I was just going over, and instead focus on the familiar face of my ally, whose eyes dart wildly around the forest. "Well, if we're lucky," I say, turning on the spot to survey the area around us as well. "Nothing."_

"_Nothing? Are you kidding? That thing must be pretty close if it came across as this loud."_

"_Or maybe it's just really big." Code pauses to let my words sink in, still seeming unsure of the safety of our surroundings, but finally he stops searching madly for an opponent and faces me. "Okay," he says slowly. "So what should we do?"_

_I'm just about to respond when another furious roar echoes through the arena, and our eyes lock, Code's blue eyes reflecting the fear that I'm sure is present in my own. I swallow nervously and shove my glasses up higher on my nose before responding, "Alright, well, I'm going to take this moment to make a very educated, well-thought out decision that involves us going back to the tower to survey this problem from a higher ground. And to meet up with our fearless, murderous allies. You know, just in case we need them."_

_The corners of Code's mouth twitch upwards slightly, some of the fear receding from his eyes. "You're not the brains of the Pack for nothing." Almost immediately after he finishes, whatever mutt's out there lets out another angry bellow and his pupils dilute once more in terror. "But yeah, let's get on that plan."_

After that short exchange, we'd made a hasty retreat back to our base, though it took slightly longer than expected due to the fact that every time the creature let out a roar we'd jump about a foot in the air and scan the area thoroughly to make sure there was still no sign of whatever it was. I could hear Code murmuring things about fate and good luck, constantly fingering the small dream-catcher that hangs from his belt. Usually, I don't think too much about luck – I'm more of a facts person – but at that moment, after listening to the beast's roar and worrying about what we might happen across whenever we step through a new path of bushes, the facts really weren't looking too good. So having a little luck on our side would have been much appreciated. Though I doubted Code's token would be much use; sure, in the Games, there are tons of nightmares. But they're not ones you can wake up from.

Our nightmare still had yet to start, though. We'd found our way back to the tower and, after scaling the wall once more, it didn't take us too long to find the cause of the monstrous roars we'd been hearing for nearly an hour. I remember how the two of us just stood in shock, watching the gigantic beast as it flew through the air, bellowing and shooting fire at what must have been other tributes. It's a rather hard thing to forget; last night was one nightmare after another, each filled with images of the dragon attacking and killing myself and others in various horrific ways.

Eventually, Code and I had decided that there wasn't much we could do from our position, and we were lucky that the monster _was_ so far away. So we'd attempted to have a normal evening (well, as normal as you can get in the arena), having a small dinner that mainly consisted of nuts and rather stale pieces of bread (the sight before us had sort of made us lose our appetites), but all the while we'd watched the dragon wreak havoc off in the distance. Then had come the first boom of a cannon. And then, a while after, there came another.

Of course, we'd had absolutely no idea who was out there; we'd separated in teams to go off and hunt again. Though Rowan was supposed to be at the tower, along with either Meredith or Perrin depending on when they switched watching him; either he'd gotten away again and they'd gone to go look for him (doubtful, I don't think anyone would be able to escape Meredith twice) or they'd gone to fight the dragon (more likely knowing Meredith and Rowan's bloodthirsty habits). As for Cordelia and Rhine though, neither of us had been sure. At least until we'd seen them emerge from the forest.

"_Code," I whisper, nudging him awake. We'd been watching the dragon for the entire evening, tensed and full of adrenaline in case it came near the tower, and after it finally flew off towards the mountains by the little sea, we came off of our energy high completely and thoroughly exhausted. Still, I don't know how Code managed to fall asleep; I wouldn't even let my eyes close for fear that if they did, the dragon would reappear in my nightmares, this time with me as its prey. Plus there was still the issue of our missing allies. Though not so missing anymore._

"_Hmm?" Code rolls over, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "What?" But further explanation isn't needed as I point towards the bottom of our base, where in the dimness of the night we can just make out the shadowy outlines of three figures. No, four, I realise after taking in the third, which seems lumpy and disproportionate. One of our allies must be carrying another._

_Code sees this too and stands, rubbing the last of sleep from his eyes. "We should help." I nod and together we run to the edge of the tower and begin our descent on the ropes. Neither of us says anything more, but I'm sure Code's thinking along the same lines as I am. Four figures; we were missing five of our allies. So who . . .?_

_My feet brush against grass and a second later plant themselves firmly on the ground as I let go of the ropes and turn to face the other Careers. It's still hard to make them out in the dark, but I can still identify our three eldest members by their tall, muscled figures. Which leaves either Rhine or Cordelia to be the figure in Perrin's arms; I don't even want to think about what it means for the one who's not present._

"_Oh, wonderful. Nice of you boys to finally show up." The voice of Meredith comes out of the shadows as she watches Code and I approach, and though our visibility is poor I'm still positive she's rolling her eyes._

"_We didn't know where any of you were," Code says quickly, though I can tell from the tone of his voice that he's less worried about defending himself to Meredith and much more nervous to find out which of our allies isn't present. _

"_Well, apparently we were off having a 'party,'" Rowan says, shooting a look at Meredith, but even in the dim lighting he doesn't seem as sardonic as usual; there's a weariness to the way he's carrying himself, to the way they all carry themselves. And whatever hope I had that they were just off hunting and not doing something fatally dangerous and ultimately dragon-related vanishes instantly._

_Meredith opens her mouth to respond but Perrin, who's had more than enough experience now heading off their fights, swiftly interrupts. "Janaff, we need your help over here."_

_I don't know when I became the official "nurse" of the Careers, but after sort of helping Rowan with his arm, I guess they all decided that while my medical experience might not be extensive, it's larger than anyone else's. So I step over to Perrin as he kneels down, carefully laying the girl in his arms on the ground. Rhine._

_A mixture of emotions bubble up inside of me as I stare at her, and some of them must show on my face at the look that overtakes her eyes. She guessed that Code and I were hoping it would be Cordelia they brought back; and as awful as it sounds, I guess there was some small part of me that was praying for that case. As soon as I think it, the idea makes me feel disgusted with myself, but at the same time, I can't help but think that losing Cordelia is a very, very bad thing._

And of course, I ended up being right when I couldn't possibly have wanted to be more wrong; seems to be a growing pattern ever since I guessed my name would be the one to come out of the reaping bowl. I mean, I never really considered any of the Careers to be "friends"; more like bloodthirsty monsters necessary to help me go far. And considering how the alliance has been going so far, I've often wondered if joining the Pack, while probably the smartest idea, was the right one. More than once I've wondered what it would have been like to be in an alliance where I don't constantly have to watch my own back to make sure none of my supposed "teammates" decide to plunge a knife into it, an alliance where we could genuinely look out for the well-being of each other. Like maybe what might have happened had I decided to team up with Precious instead. But it won't do me any good to think about that now; once you're in with the Pack, it's not exactly easy to leave. Besides, allying with my district partner now is pretty obviously impossible.

Though I didn't care before how easy it was to leave the Careers. Had my strategy gone as planned, I might have even managed to kill off one of the big threats (Rowan or Meredith) before I snuck off; without them alive to track me down, it would have been much easier. But tensions are running high now, the death of Cordelia taking its toll on our alliance. I don't think anyone fully realised it, but our youngest member was also the glue that held us all together, what with her cheeriness and everything. Even after she'd had her kill and lost herself in the guilt, she still brought us together over mutual concern for her wellbeing; I think that most people in our alliance couldn't help but feel some sort of need to help her, or at the very least tone down the violence and arguments when she was around. Like survival, protection of the innocent is an instinct too, no matter how evil or rude people make themselves out to be (psychopaths excepted, of course). The example being Rhine, who's been even more sullen and snarky of late to hide what I believe is the fact that she really did care about Cordelia. Because of that, her and Code have been fighting more, which in turn annoys Meredith, which in turn makes her more willing to fight with Rowan, which _in turn_ annoys Perrin. Yes, our alliance's dynamic, never all that great in the first place, has now been seriously messed with. But there's still hope that my plan might work; say what you will about the Careers, but they're resilient. In a few days, hopefully everyone'll adjust and things will go back to normal, giving me the opportunity to make my move.

I just hope no one's planning on screwing us over more in the meantime.

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><p><strong>Achilles Atromitos, District 1 Male<strong>

"A-Achilles?"

"Right here." Of course I am, I've barely left this spot for what must have been nearly five days since we found this spot to camp in. The only reason I've moved from my constant position and Imogen's side was to find food, water and other supplies our new little ally might need while she worked. Every time I saw her helping Imogen, I felt a pit of guilt grow inside me; why couldn't I be more help? If only I'd grown up somewhere like District 6.

Then again, had we lived in a non-Career district, my godfather might not have chosen to rig the reapings. And I wouldn't be here.

_Zeus_. The name's rung through my head countless times and never fails to bring with it a boiling feeling of rage. Actually, it might have been a good thing that I didn't figure it out until it was too late; I don't think the Capitol would be all that happy if one of their tributes murdered their mentor. Well, hopefully they'll be alright with a Victor killing a fellow Victor then, because I'm _not _going to let this go. I had a life, I had children I needed to care for, and my godfather took it all away. Heck, why am I even calling him my godfather? I've never considered myself to be related to him and after what he did, nothing could possibly disgust me more.

But right now, it's not myself I should be thinking about, or even my good-for-nothing, lying, repulsive excuse for a guardian; it's my ally, who stares up at me with her one good eye. We weren't quite sure what happened to the other but it was a mess and all I ended up doing was placing a makeshift bandage over it. That's all we've been able to for her, really; even sewing stitches is hard, when the skin was shredded or just cut off in so many places that Catherine didn't know where to put the thread through. As for me, I'm completely useless; just like with Marie.

"Y-you look . . . awful. What was . . . l-last time you . . . slept?"

I manage to choke out a small laugh at that; truthfully, I don't _know_ when I last slept. Getting the rest didn't seem considerably important compared to the torture my ally was going through. Even as I look at her, mouth trying to quirk upwards in a tiny smile, it's obvious she's still feeling incomprehensible amounts of pain. Even more evident when she grits her teeth and lets out another quiet, agony-filled groan after more waves of pain shoot through her. "Shh, shh, don't worry," I say, taking her hand and allowing her to squeeze mine in an attempt to relieve some of the distress. "It's going to be alright."

"H-hurts . . ."

"I know," I whisper softly, even though I can't even begin to imagine how bad she's feeling. "I know."

"I just . . . don't know . . . if I can . . . m-make it . . ."

"You can," I say firmly. "We're going to help you Imogen, you're _going_ to get better. There isn't another option." I try to force all of the determination I can into my voice, as if I can somehow will her to get better just by saying it, but it doesn't help. She looks up at me, seeming so fragile and vulnerable, so different from the girl I met in training, and I can't help but consider the fact that she probably _won't_ make it. The only thing that could help would be a sponsor gift, and we haven't gotten any of those. Why, I can take a pretty good guess at; the Capitolites probably don't want to waste all of their money sending medicine to a tribute who seems so close to death already. As for me, well, your mentor is in charge of sending you supplies; and I believe I ticked mine off pretty badly. Maybe this is payback for not joining with the Careers and tethering myself to a tortured eighteen year-old and the youngest player in these Games. Still, Imogen's _needs_ the medicine; no amount of woodland herbs can help her condition now. So maybe it's time to get over myself and my anger at my godfa- at Zeus. At least then I might not be so useless.

I glance back down to see Imogen's eye closed in more pain-filled sleep, her mouth forming a tight grimace that occasionally lets out the smallest moans and whimpers. And it's that that forces me onto my feet, looking upwards and hoping the cameras are zooming in on my face now as I take a deep, slow breath, trying to bottle up my anger and fury, and forcing my face into a neutral expression.

"Look, we _need_ help. Imogen's a fantastic fighter, and if we had the supplies that we need she could get back in the Games. She could be a contender again. Please, just send us something."

I wait, but no silver parachute materialises in the sky, bringing with it hope that my ally could be alright. I didn't expect it to though; Zeus wouldn't care what Imogen could bring to the Games. He's probably still listening, waiting to hear something more. Something that would make me the victorious, Career son that he always wanted. _No, _I think to myself. _I can't- I don't want to be like them._

But I don't have a choice.

"I'll do it," I say softly, then repeat it louder. "I'll do it. I'll be like the Careers, I'll go out and win this thing, I'll . . ." I peter off, swallowing hard. I can almost see Zeus leaning over the screen showing my face, waiting for me to finish. "I-I . . ." _Say it, _I tell myself. _For Imogen._ "I'll get some kills. I'll be exactly like you were in the Games, just send us some supplies. Please."

For one, terrifying moment, it doesn't seem like he's going to do anything. Then I see it, that beautiful, beautiful silver parachute floating down through the air; Imogen's saviour. I nearly cheer as it descends towards me; but then I realise that something's wrong. It's not bringing medicine; the object is too long and narrow.

The parachute sails down to the ground and comes to rest at my feet, its accompanying gift glinting in the sun, leaving no question as to what it could be. But still, I just continue to stare. Because it doesn't make any sense. A trident? Why, when I already have a weapon, would he send me a trident? Admittedly it is my preferred weapon, but still . . .

Then I see it, stuck to the end of the object; a small, white card with two neatly written words on it.

_Prove it._

It takes a second for the words to make sense in my brain, echoing through my mind in Zeus's voice. But almost immediately after, they're drowned out by the cacophonous roar of absolute, utter _hate._ My ally is dying, I ask for medicine and he wastes money on a trident instead so that I have my best weapon when I kill others? I can't believe it . . . In a rage, I kick the gift away, watching it hit a nearby tree before turning away and putting my head in my hands. I have to get myself under control, or we might not get anymore gifts. _Oh yeah, because you definitely need the gifts he sends, _a small voice in my mind says scathingly. _Face it, he never was and never will be any help. Because he's a monster. _

"Achilles?"

I turn to see Catherine emerge from the forest, returning from her scavenging session with an arm full of herbs. She glances from me to the trident and back again, but surprisingly her only question is, "How is she?"

I look back at Imogen, almost forgotten for a moment as anger overrode all of my senses. "She's . . ." My voice catches in my throat for a moment, the memory of that brief moment of hope I had where I could have saved her entirely destroyed. "Not good."

Catherine bites her lip and nods, but I can tell that it doesn't surprise her. "I brought more herbs but . . . I don't think they'll help at this point."

I nod, looking at the green plants in her hands. She'd found them a few days ago and said they were supposed to be some sort of natural pain killer, but obviously it only worked for minor, minor injuries. We'd need something a lot stronger to dull down Imogen's pain. _And you can't do anything to get it,_ I think harshly. _You can't do anything._

"I think I saw something," Catherine says, startling me out of my reverie. "During the bloodbath. There were a few medical supplies lying around and there was some really strong stuff there. I didn't grab it because . . ." She stops as an involuntary shudder runs up her spine at the memories, reminding me just how young she is. Only twelve years old and she's been far more help around here than I have. "But it's probably still there. I can't imagine the Careers sustained enough injuries to use the entire supply."

I glance at her sharply. "And where exactly are you going with this?"

"Well," she begins, and I'm surprised to see a small grin sneak onto her face. "I have a plan."


	38. Share the Wealth

_**I'm so, so, so, so sorry for the wait guys! My summer has been crazy and I've been trying to finish this chapter for weeks. I'll definitely make sure that this large a gap in updates doesn't happen again, really sorry that it had to happen this time! Thanks so much for sticking with this story, you guys all rock :D**_

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><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

I perch on the branch, one arm wrapped protectively around the trunk of the large tree as I try craning my neck to see the surface of the tower; still nothing. I sigh and scramble up a little higher, but it's starting to become evident that I'm pushing my luck at this height; the solid branches are quickly giving way to delicate twigs, and one wrong step could have me break through and go crashing to my doom. But no matter the risk, I have to do this; for my allies.

Achilles and I stayed up most of last night refining and discussing my plan to get medicine for Imogen. It took countless attempts and compromising, and even by the end of it I could tell he wasn't particularly happy with the risks; specifically, the ones _I'd_ be taking. Of course, I wasn't wild about sneaking around the Career camp myself, but there wasn't any other way. Besides, the dangers he faced were far greater.

"_Absolutely not," Achilles says as I finish my idea. "That's way too dangerous."_

"_I know it sounds bad, but we need to do this! Imogen needs the medicine."_

_My ally sighs and looks over at our third member, currently sleeping restlessly nearby. I can see the worry in his eyes; he must know that this is necessary. And if I, the smallest and most unobtrusive tribute in these Games, could manage to sneak up the tower, grab the supplies and get back to our base without any of the Careers noticing, everything would be fine. Providing it all went according to the plan; I try to stop an unconscious shiver from running through my body as the memory of the last time I saw Rhine enters my mind, sliding her blood-coated sword out of the District 9 boy's stomach before she came at me. I know this is necessary but part of me still can't help but pray desperately that some other option will appear, because no matter how many times I try to fool myself into thinking I'm brave and courageous like those heroes in the stories I read to Taralo, the idea of going anywhere near the Careers again terrifies me to death. _

_Achilles seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he quickly says, "No, we can't risk it. Besides, we need you here; you're the only one with the medical expertise."_

"_But Imogen needs-"_

"_I know. That's why I'll get it."_

I hadn't seen that plan of action working at all, in the beginning. We already knew that Rowan was after both him and Imogen, and I'm sure the other Careers would love to get their hands on Achilles after he flat-out refused to be part of the Pack. But he reasoned that running into the other Careers might not even be necessary, that there might be an opportunity where they all leave their base and he could just grab the medicine without getting into any fights. Which is why I was here now; spying on them to see if that would ever be the case.

Perrin and Rowan had already left earlier, and the only others unaccounted for were Rhine, her district partner, Meredith and the boy from Eight, all of which I presumed to be up at the tower. We already knew that they'd lost one of their members; the girl from One's face had appeared along with that of the boy from Twelve, shortly after terrifying roars had been heard from all corners of the arena. Thankfully we'd managed to avoid what we could only assume to be the biggest mutt ever in the history of the Games.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, shaking me out of my thoughts; Meredith descending the ropes of the tower at an alarming rate, landing firmly on the ground and shouting something up to her allies. Instinctively, I shrink back against the tree trunk, heart beginning to beat faster at the thought of being so close to one of the deadliest tributes in this Game. But at least this time, there's more distance between us; another involuntary shudder makes its way up my spine as I think about the last time I was nearly found by Meredith and the two other eldest members of the Pack.

The District 4 female shouts something again and slowly I watch as another figure begins to descend the tower, though it doesn't look like they're climbing down themselves; instead it seems like they're being lowered. My eyes wander up to the edge of the structure and I see the two boys, Code and Janaff, with a rope in each hand, seeming to help the other Career, who must be Rhine, descend to the ground. _What's that about?_ I start to wonder, but if becomes apparent once I see both the stick/crutch clutched in her hand and her left leg, done up in a makeshift splint. It must be broken; though what kind of person could manage to overpower one of the most vicious Careers and deal them such a hindering injury?

Meredith and Rhine appear to have some sort of conversation go on, a smirk on the former's face while the latter just glares at her leader until the boys make their way down as well. Meredith shouts some orders, gesturing around with her hands and for one, terrifying second the thought comes to me that they might head in _my_ direction, but thankfully the idea is quickly abolished when they start into another section of the woods, presumably to hunt for other tributes. Which means I'd better be careful on my way back to the camp.

_At least I'll have good news though, _I think, slowly starting to shimmy down the tree. _Achilles was right in thinking they wouldn't leave a guard; I guess after a week of being in the arena and not having even half of the competition cut down, the Careers are getting a bit anxious to kill off more of the competition, pushing even the injured Rhine to head out and hunt. Not that she'll get far, with an injury like that. _My guess is that she hasn't yet tried to trek through the arena with her broken leg, because I can't see it working all that well. Eventually they'll probably end up just leaving her at their base, or dosing her up on tons of the pain medication they must have up there.

And then we'll lose our chance.

I freeze, halfway down the tree before this thought occurs and quickly halts my descent. _Lose our chance . . ._ it's true, isn't it? Unless the Games last another five weeks or more, Rhine'll be stuck with that break for the rest of her time in the arena. And the Careers, never ones wanting to be slowed down, will just leave her at the tower, preventing us from getting up there. Unless Achilles was prepared to go up there and . . . I shudder slightly at the thought. I mean, Rhine's tried to kill me on multiple occasions and she has to die in order for me to get back to my brothers and parents and Dhara. But killing her? I guess if it came down to it . . . I-I, well, I don't even know. Why should I have to think about these things? I'm twelve! It's just, it's so . . .

_Stop it Catherine, _I tell myself, trying to silence my thoughts. _Pitying yourself for being the youngest here won't get you anywhere._ Still, it's hard to calm the growing storm of worries floating around inside my head. But out of them all, one thought shines clearly through: Rhine or Imogen. If we don't get the medicine, Imogen will die. And Rhine'll be up there guarding the supplies for the rest of the Games, so the only way to get to them will be to kill her. My stomach churns at the thought as a feeling I can only describe as pure awfulness seeps through me; sure I knew that every time a cannon fired, someone died, but none of them had ever seemed so . . . personal. Just as the reapings had never affected me until this year, death still seemed slightly far away in the arena, even when I saw the boy from Nine killed before my eyes. Remembering the bloodbath brings the images to mind and I shudder, feeling as though I'm about to throw up. Part of me knows that this must just be a delayed reaction to shock, something I'd been suppressing for the sake of survival until now. But another part of me believes it's because of my imminent situation. Someone is going to die, someone _has_ to die-

Hang on. My thoughts stop short as a new idea enters my mind, an idea so simple and obvious that I nearly laugh at my own stupidity, the worry and fear fleeing my body and leaving me feeling as though the weight of the world was just lifted off of my shoulders. When they throw us into the arena, the Gamemakers are trying to make us into killers, see that every problem can be solved by killing someone. And it's that mindset that just affected me; but I didn't consider the wonderful idea that right now there's _no one_ guarding the medicine and Achilles, Imogen and I still have yet to lose our chance. We just have to act quickly; _very_ quickly, if my guess on how long Rhine'll last before giving into the pain of her leg is anywhere near correct. Enough time to sneak back to our camp, tell Achilles and have him get to the tower and back before any of the Careers return?

_No, _I realise, the sinking feeling beginning to return. _No it's not. _Achilles and I may be fast, but in the interest of survival the camp was set up as far as my District 1 ally could get from the Career base with a tortured ally to carry. We wouldn't make it.

Unless . . .

Maybe it's just the fact that the imminent threat of death is constantly hanging over my head in the arena that's sending my brain into overdrive, but I can't remember a time where I've had this many thoughts whir inside my head all at once. I've been jumping from idea to idea so quickly too, it's almost hard to believe I was contemplating death a second ago, now that I've got a new plan. A plan I just came up with on the spur of the moment, one neither well-thought out or foolproof and one that may result in my death – but try to I push that all from my mind. In the arena, it's best never to think about consequences.

Taking another cautious look around, I shimmy down the rest of the tree and stop half-hidden behind its enormous trunk, peering out nervously from behind it. Still no sign of anyone; now might be the only chance we have to get the medicine. And I wouldn't be able to get Achilles to come fast enough, which leaves me with only one option: me. I have to climb up the tower, find the painkillers and make it back to the camp.

I try to reassure myself that compared to how close I've come to death in the arena already, this is nothing. The Careers are all dispersed and probably won't be coming back for a while yet. I'm fast climber and a faster runner. "Get there, get the stuff and get out," I repeat to myself, getting ready to step out from behind the tree and jog to the tower, but my legs don't seem to want to move. No matter what I think, what I tell myself, I just can't convince my mind that this isn't dangerous or risky. I just . . . I don't want to die. Not at twelve. Not in this horrible arena. Not without seeing my family again.

Just the thought of my mother, father and brothers threatens to bring tears to my eyes, but I shake my head, trying to clear it. Enough thinking; I have to act now. My Games family needs me.

_It's like jumping into a cold lake, _I think, trying to steel myself for what's about to come. _You know, you just have to do it. All. At. Once!_

On the last word I leap forwards, arms suspended crazily at my sides before my feet hit the ground and they start pumping to help get me more speed. As soon as I dash out from the cover of the forest, images of terrifying mutts and tributes alike all at my heels assault my mind, but I force myself to keep sprinting towards the tower. _Don't think, don't look around, don't do anything except run._

And suddenly, it's there in front of me; I was so focused on not looking over my shoulder that I nearly crash into the stone frame of the tower. For a moment, all I can do is stare up at the thing, remembering how the last time I stood down here and looked up, I was smiling at the fact that I'd managed to survive against all odds against Rhine. The ghost of a grin makes the corners of my lips twitch upwards. Let's hope I can do it again.

My hands wrap around the firm, rough surface of the rope and I slowly start to pull myself up, ignoring my twitching neck as it unconsciously tries to turn and look out for any approaching tributes, to satisfy my paranoia. But I know that if I succumb to glancing over my shoulder, I won't be able to stop; or, worse, I'll just give up on trying to get the medicine now. And then it's all over.

The climb seems a lot higher and longer than my descent during the bloodbath, though that's probably due to the fact that I fell part of the way down the tower last time. Anyways, by the time I reach the top my arms are burning with the stress of the excursion; trembling hands reach over the edge of the building as I heave one last time and swing my legs over the edge, allowing myself a second to get my breath back. I can't believe the Careers do that every day and multiple times at that. Although remembering the muscles that some of them sport, I guess it makes sense.

I stand, rotating my shoulders and trying to shake out the cramped feeling in my arm muscles, and decide to allow myself one look to see if there really are any approaching threats that I should worry about. But even after asserting that there's no Careers or other dangerous tributes down on the ground or climbing up the tower, I still continue to stare out at the landscape in front of me. Sure, I got to see the view back during the bloodbath; but I'd had only a minute and even then my thoughts were mostly on how I was going to get off the tower alive. Now though, I can take in the lush forest, beautiful castle and the sparkling sea and accompanying little mountain that our campsite isn't actually too far from. And, am I imagining things, or is there a plume of smoke rising from the ridge near the ocean? Nah, probably a trick of the light.

Still, I frown and squint, trying to get a closer look, until a flock of birds fly by, emitting startling caws that cause me to jump and nearly fall over the edge. _Jeez, remember where you are, _I tell myself, finally breaking away from the view and turning to the tower. _You're not here to paint a landscape. You're in the arena and you just walked into the dragon's den. That is, if the Careers could be considered as dragon's. And they're certainly dangerous enough to be._

I start to creep over to the supplies before realising that no one's up here but me and trying to be quiet won't do me any good, so I sprint the last few steps towards the supplies. A few empty crates form a circle around what looks like the remnants of a fire, while some food bins and weapons are piled up nearby. But for the most part, everything is pushed inside the giant, golden Cornucopia. I quickly slip past the first few boxes at the entrance, all of which seem to be food, but a plain, white box marked only with a red cross catches my eye. However, its contents reveal it to be anything but plain.

"_Yes!_"I whisper quietly, smile widening as my fingers glide over the smooth vials. This is even better than the stuff I saw during the bloodbath; my guess is medicine like this was hidden in the very center of the Cornucopia, a place most tributes wouldn't dare to approach. I slip one of the needles out of its protective casing and look it over closely, confirming what I'd originally thought; it's a powerful painkiller, not the best but more than we could ever have hoped for in the arena. I grin, slipping the vial into my boot and turning to go, but something stops me. Resting nearby, tossed unceremoniously near the back of the Cornucopia, is a sleek bow, a quiver full of arrows beside it. Part of me wonders why such an amazing weapon like this one was just dumped in a corner instead of being used by the Careers, but I don't bother trying to come up with an answer, instead reaching out to hold the bow in my hand, staring at the amazing craftsmanship done on it. My other arm stretches towards the quiver, one finger gliding over the point of an arrow and swiftly retreating when it draws a bit of blood. I look at it; pretty sharp.

Out of all the things I'd tried during training, the bow and arrow was really the only thing I actually took too. During the bloodbath, I was too busy running and praying for my life to bother trying to pick up a weapon, but now, holding one in my hands, I can't imagine being in the arena without one. It just gives me such a sense of security, even if I can't always aim it particularly well. But I can't take it. Can I?

Well, why shouldn't I? The Careers have a massive pile of supplies; they wouldn't miss a weapon they so obviously don't care about. And even if they did then-then all the better! Why should they get to sit up here with all this food and medicine while the rest of us are struggling to get by? It may be called the Hunger Games, but I doubt anyone in Districts 1, 2 or 4 have ever known hunger. And judging by the amount of stuff they have, they never will. It bothers me, that they get everything. I hesitate for a second, then sling the quiver around my shoulder and tighten my grip on the bow, the other hand reaching for a bag of potatoes. After all, what's wrong with sharing the wealth?

"I'm going as fast as I can! Jeez, calm down!"

Time seems to slow down, to the point where I can feel my eyes widen, knuckles turning white in their hold on the weapon while each muscle in my legs creaks and starts to whirl me around. Oh God, oh God, oh God; I back peddle furiously as I complete my turn, nearly falling into a stacked column of crates that, had they tumbled to the ground, would have been the death of me. No one's reached the top of tower yet, but the Career boy whose voice I heard must be close to the top; I can see the rope in front of the Cornucopia pulled taut as though someone's hanging onto it. In another second he'll be up.

And then I'll be dead.

_No!_ I think frantically, stumbling further into the Cornucopia and following the curve of the horn. I'm not going to die, I can't die, I don't _want_ to die! Unconsciously I start gasping for air, hyperventilating slightly and I have to concentrate to stop it. The noise might give me away. _But it's not like you can hide anyways! _a voice inside my head shouts. _There's nowhere to go. _No, it can't be over, it can't-

Wait; to give off the appearance of a real horn to be filled during a harvest, the tail of the Cornucopia curves around to the right. The amount of room I have drastically decreases as I inch closer and closer to the end of the inside, but by the time I reach the point where I no longer have any room to move, I'm out of sight from anyone reaching the top of the tower. Only if they go deep enough into the golden horn will they be able to stop me. Shakily, I reach for the quiver on my back, but the protective feeling I thought it gave me earlier has quickly disappeared in light of this new, real threat. I really might actually die.

And all because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving with just what I came for.

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

I pull myself over the edge of the tower and take a deep breath, relishing in the chance to relax my aching muscles. We may have to climb this tower every day, but it definitely does _not _get any easier as time goes by. Especially when you also have to pull someone up yourself; I sigh as Rhine's annoyed shouts reach my ears and grab onto one of the ropes nearby, which we fashioned into a sort of lifting device for her, with a harness created from another rope we sawed off and attached to the other. Perrin carried her up to the tower the first time after they came back from, well, _that_ day, but of course Rhine complained immediately about "not needing anyone's help." Thus followed an episode where she tried to descend the tower on her own, and it ended with her almost falling to her death. So we had to figure out a different way to get her up and down; she didn't like it at first, since she's so freakishly stubborn about not relying on anyone, but in the end, she had to deal with it. The alternative was being left behind at the tower, and goodness knows she wouldn't stand for that.

Though there wasn't much she could do when Meredith said, point blank, that she was slowing us down and "Rhine wasn't any use anyways." Well, she hadn't used words quite so nice and of course it had hit a nerve with my district partner. But there wasn't exactly anything she could do about it, since she really was moving at a snail's pace (it's hard enough to keep up with Meredith's insanely fast pace even with two perfectly healthy legs) and everyone knew it. So that had left me to take Rhine back to the tower and Janaff to keep hunting with Meredith. I don't know which of us had gotten the worse deal.

"Took you long enough," Rhine snaps when I finally manage to haul her up high enough that she can hang onto the edge of the tower with her hands while I drop the rope and grab her arm to pull her up, eliciting a few small groans and winces of pain. She's lucky she only got away with a broken leg, a concussion and some major bruising and cuts on her back (not to mention 99% of the rest of her). From what Perrin, Meredith and Rowan recounted, her fall sounded pretty bad.

"Hey, it's harder when it's just me doing it," I say back.

"Oh yeah, 'cause Library Boy has _so_ much muscle to offer."

"Janaff's . . . good," I say, "good" being the only word I could come up with at the moment. "Anyways, he came up with your whole harness device in the first place."

Rhine just scowls and limps over to a crate, using the crude walking stick/crutch we found in the forest. Ever since the dragon attack, she's been more sullen, quick to argue with others (mainly me). It's not like her usual taunting though; no, whenever she insulted me it was always with a smirk on her face and a mischievous, evil glint in her eyes. Now she just scowls and glares most of the time. At first I'd dismissed it as just her being tired and out-of-sorts due to her injuries, but since this morning I'd started entertaining the idea I'd had before again; that Rhine might have actually _cared_ for Cordelia.

Maybe my district partner can read minds, or she can just see the hints of sympathy on my face because she glowers at me. "Are you going to stand there all day like an idiot or do something actually _useful_?"

I shake myself out of my thoughts and frown back at her. "What, you need more pain medication?"

Her glare hardens, but I can see the pain behind it, and the way she grits her teeth, flinching each time she moves her back or her leg. "That's not what I meant."

"But it's what you were implying," I mutter under my breath, making sure she can't hear me as I head towards the Cornucopia. Normally, I would have said that to her face, with an added insult or two but lately, I just haven't had the heart to. Sure, she's a prickly, sharp-tongued, merciless jerk, but she went through a lot during the attack two days ago and, despite the fact that I hate her guts, she does deserve some slack.

I catch sight immediately of the white box Janaff left out earlier and head over to it. I'm really hoping that Rhine's been paying attention to how he administers the medication because a) I have no idea where it goes and b) needles creep me out. Yes, die-hard, trained Career from District 2 flinches at the sight of needles. At least Rhine doesn't know about it; I'd never hear the end of that one.

I flip the box lid open and scan the contents, my hand already reaching for the painkillers. But I stop suddenly, and pull it back out.

Something's missing.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

I was sitting at the back of the Cornucopia, hoping, _praying_ that it was just the one guy I'd heard. Not that I liked my chances fighting _any_ of the Career boys, but battling one would certainly be easier than the whole pack. And then I heard the girl's voice. And my heart sank straight into the pit of my stomach.

Rhine.

I'm _doomed_.

I'd thought that my muscles were already as tense as they could get before they end up snapping in two, but I realise that they _can_ become even more strained as I hear the telltale _click_ of the medicine box opening, followed by someone moving further into the Cornucopia, presumably to find the missing painkillers. They've probably already guessed that they were taken, and now they're looking for me right now, getting nearer and nearer to my hiding spot, weapons raised and ready to use to end the life of the youngest tribute in the 37th Games. No, no, no, no, _please_ no; I find it harder to contain the gasping sobs trying to escape and furiously hold my breath, waiting in frozen terror for a tribute to walk around the curve of the Cornucopia and spot me.

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

Huh, I could have _sworn_ there was one more needle of painkillers in here; ah well, I never did pay that much attention to the medical side of our supplies. That's mostly Janaff's job. Besides, I'm sure there's another box of medicine somewhere in here. It's probably just been pushed to the back.

I start to move through the rows of supplies, stepping around a bag of potatoes as I go. Jeez, we have potatoes? Why haven't we been eating this stuff? Meredith's always insisting that we should "hunt our own meat." I guess she doesn't want us growing soft, sitting up here and eating through our food when we could be practicing our skills on some wandering animals. And of course, there's the fact that she's constantly hoping we'll run into some tributes to kill on our hunting excursions.

You know what, as bad and annoying as Rhine is, I really think that it's better to be here with her then down in the forest with Meredith. Poor Janaff . . .

Wait a second; is that _blood_? "What the-?" I start to whisper, stopping next to a woolen blanket (blankets? Why aren't we using these things? Man, Meredith enjoys making us suffer) and peer down at the ground. I'm nearing the back of the golden horn and it's pretty shadowy, but the sun's rays reach just far enough that I can make out a small droplet or two of blood nearby. From the bloodbath? Did anyone actually have a fight in here? No . . . this looks fresh. I kneel closer to examine it, mind still whirring with plausible explanations as to why it might be here, when suddenly there's a loud _clang!_ nearby and I whirl around, expertly drawing my knife from my belt and fully ready to attack.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

Just when it feels as though I'm about to die from overwhelming terror, a sound registers in my mind that offers the tiniest sliver of relief; whoever's moving around in here is doing so slowly and calmly, not like you'd think a Career would if they'd just figured out that someone stole some of their supplies. The realisation doesn't help much, but I do stop clenching the bow so tightly that my hands shake. Maybe I still have a chance; maybe I won't be found . . .

Oh no; oh no, oh no, oh no. Finally having enough to courage to tear my eyes away from the spot where I know my killer will appear, my gaze darts towards the ground; and the sight that appears there makes my heart stop. My token! The forest-green material where my star pin had been attached hadn't looked too sturdy, but I'd never stopped to take the time and re-pin it. But now the consequences for ignoring its precarious position would be my death. They could find other reasons as to why the medicine might be missing, but finding my token would only mean one thing; there was a tribute at the tower. And if the Career in the Cornucopia gets close enough to spot the pin and comes to investigate, he'll see me for sure. And then it'll be over.

A surge of determination suddenly rages through me as I grit my teeth. No! I'm not going to die today; not before I see my family and friends again. I take a deep, silent breath, then steel myself and begin inching my hand forward towards the pin. _You're going to get caught!_ part of me screams, but the other part of me is shouting back that I'm going to be seen anyway, that this is a last-ditch effort and it's better than just sitting and imagining the horrors that might wait for me around the corner. Speaking of horrors . . . no, don't _do _that to yourself, Catherine! Don't think, just act. And pray. That might be good too.

"What the-?"

I freeze, my arm still a few inches from my token. That was the Career's voice; did he see my hand? He must have, what else could he possibly have been talking about? And now he's going to come around the corner armed with maces and swords and axes and whatever other weapons the Careers use, all ready to use in order to end my life. In a panic, I whip my arm back, accidentally knocking it against a spare sword that rests on a crate. The hilt swings back, following my arm's momentum while the rest of the weapon jerks forwards. And then, almost in slow motion, the weight of the blade outbalances the hilt and the sword begins to fall to the ground.

_No!_ I think frantically, lunging forwards to catch it, but it's too late; the weapon's going to hit the ground, the sound ringing out through the golden horn. And then, moments later, another sound is going to echo through the arena.

The cannon of Catherine Street.

_CLANG!_

* * *

><p><strong>Code Schuyler, District 2 Male<strong>

I gasp at the sight before me, knife still outstretched and ready to attack, but as I take in this new development I smile and slip the dagger back into my belt; won't need a weapon to take care of _this_.

"Rhine! Rhine, do you see this?"

"Of course I see it, it came down right in front of me! I'm not _blind_, Code."

But I shake off her scornful tone, a grin still on my face as I sprint out of the Cornucopia – and I guess I must have accidentally knocked against something as I went, because a second later there's another _thump_ as something hits the ground. Though I couldn't really care less at the moment; because we have a sponsor gift!

"It's huge!" I say, detaching the huge parachute from the heavy, metal box and tossing the silver material back towards the Cornucopia. Despite her earlier derision, Rhine can't seem to contain her curiosity and hobbles over, yanking the lid off and allowing the most wonderful scents I've ever smelled to grace the air around us.

"Food," she says, slightly surprised.

"District 2 food!" I say, pulling out a small pastry that looks exactly like the ones made at the bakery down the street from our house. I mean, I fell in love with the Capitol food during the week before the Games, but there's nothing like real, hearty cooking from Two. Not entirely sure why they sent us such a gigantic, weighty box, since it's only about half-full, but hey, I'm not complaining.

"Well, that's a waste of a sponsor gift," Rhine says, rolling her eyes. "We've got more food than any other tributes in the Games. We don't need this crap."

"Crap?" I say incredulously. "Well, maybe you guys had amazing food 24/7 thanks to your sister, but I grew up with this stuff." I rifle around and find a small pie, about the size of my palm. Oh, yes; this stuff was my entire childhood. I take a bite and close my eyes, allowing the familiar tastes to wash over me. "Man, it makes it feel almost like we're back home."

"I don't know why you'd want to _be_ back home," Rhine says. "After all, you volunteered for this, didn't you?"

I open my mouth to retort, but as her words sink in I stop. Yeah, I kind of _did_ volunteer, didn't I? So does that mean that I'm supposed to be happy in the arena? I guess . . . but in all honesty, it hasn't exactly been great. Especially with Cordelia . . . well, I don't know how my uncle's Games went, but I have a feeling he left most of what went on out of his stories. "What's that?" I ask, trying to change the subject as Rhine picks up a container, opening it to reveal telling scents of what smells almost like a homemade broth.

She sends me a contemptuous look. "It's soup."

"And you're staring at it like it holds the secrets to the universe." She glares at me, but I can tell that I'm on to something. "What's so special about it?"

"Nothing; it's soup."

"So you won't mind if I eat it then."

She's still glowering, but I watch her hand tighten unconsciously around the container. I raise an eyebrow, smiling slightly that my new tactic worked and of course, my grin earns a scowl from my district partner, but for once she doesn't seem in the mood to argue further. "Fine. My brother used to make the same recipe for me whenever I was sick. Or upset." For a moment she seems lost in thought, then she quickly shakes herself out of it and resumes her position glowering at me. "You have anything to say to that?"

I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. Honestly, I'm tired, we have food from home and despite our mutual dislike, I don't really want to bother starting an argument. "Yes, but for fear of retaliation, I'll keep quiet."

"Good," she says, getting up and moving away. "I guess you're not quite as big an idiot as you seem to be."

"You know, if you're going to retaliate anyways," I start to say, but give up and just watch her limp off. Actually, for Rhine, that was probably one of the nicest things that could have come out of her mouth; it's certainly better than the scathing retorts that she's been spouting ever since the attack with the dragon. I guess certain things can work wonders on a person's attitude, like the right kind of soup. Isn't there such a thing as comfort food? Maybe it'll help Rhine get over what happened; even though she'd tell any of us that there was never anything to get over because she didn't care. But I think she really did.

It's at that moment, just when I'm staring at my ally's back and seeing her in a somewhat new light, that something rushes past me and leaps off of the tower.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

_More food? I can't believe this!_

Of course, I was more thankful than I could ever express for the perfect timing of the Careers sponsor gift, relief flooding through my veins as I peered around the corner, saw that both Careers were occupied and managed to grab my pin. But I'd risked keeping an eye on them, and it had resulted in a seed of anger beginning to grow inside of me as well. Why in the world were the most supplied tributes in the arena getting _more _things? Especially when they so obviously didn't need it.

I know, I'm still stuck at the Career base with two killers literally sitting right outside my hiding place and I should be terrified out of my mind; believe me, I still am. But I can't help feeling a little indignant too. I mean, that box is gigantic! It must weigh nearly as much as I do. The parachute alone was about the size of a small tent, just to hold the gift aloft.

Wait . . .

_It must weigh nearly as much as I do._

Ah.

A light bulb seems to go off in my head as I stare at the silver material, now tossed carelessly near the mouth of the Cornucopia. The part of my mind that hadn't been racing with frantic, horrified thoughts was desperately trying to come up with escape plans, none of which seemed to work. It didn't look like the Careers were planning on leaving their base, and my guess was that Rhine wouldn't be leaving any time soon. I could always try and stay until the other Career boy left and pray the District 2 girl would be slowed because of her leg, but it could take ages and the other members of the Pack might come back in the meantime. I couldn't run out and start climbing down the ropes; they'd cut them and I'd fall to my death before I hit the bottom. Obviously, jumping was out of the question. I needed either a faster way down, or one that wouldn't restrict me to staying in one specific spot, where I could be easily hit with numerous weapons.

And I might have just the thing. All I had to do was look at the Careers sponsor gift as less of one to help them, and more of when to help me.

Is there such a thing as conjoint sponsor gifts? Something that helps two tributes, unbeknownst to one of them? I don't know, and I doubt the situation's ever come up before. But the fact is, the food may help the Careers, but there was no need to send such a large, heavy box. The only explanation is that someone must have wanted to help me too, and paid a little extra so that the sponsor gift was bigger. And, more importantly, had a bigger parachute.

I shrink back to the end of the Cornucopia as Rhine gets up and moves off, the boy staring after her. He's not looking my way at all; _okay, Catherine, you've got one shot. Don't mess it up. _Slowly, I sling the bow over my back with the quiver and inch forwards, closer to the opening of the golden horn and taking great care to make no noise that might alert the Career of my presence too soon. Finally, my fingers outstretch and curl along the strings at the corners of the material, taking two in each hand._ I can do this, I can do this. At the very least, I'll have tried. _My parents always told me and my brothers that life was measured, not by your success, but by how much you tried to succeed. Really, I guess it is preferable to die attempting to escape rather than sit in the Cornucopia and wait for people to find me.

And with that, I run.

I don't even hear the shout of alarm until I'm leaping off of the tower, parachute trailing behind me until I start plummeting. For a terrifying second, it doesn't look like it's going to open to wind, staying folded in half and letting me plummet to my doom. I open my mouth to scream, just like during the bloodbath, but suddenly the parachute pulls upwards and I stop falling. And start gliding.

I twist around, trying to see over my shoulder to the Careers at the tower and see the boy standing at the edge while Rhine comes behind. She shouts something at him and he pulls a knife out of his belt, my heart stopping as he yanks his arm back and then throws the blade, heading straight for me. But it starts to lose momentum before it gets to close and ends up falling to the ground a good metre from where I float in the air. And that's when I start laughing. I don't know, it just all hit me; I sneaked into the Career camp, stole powerful painkillers _and _a weapon, and managed, against all odds, to get out alive. I grin, still full of a giddy happiness that only slightly disperses when I crash into a tree. I scramble to get a good hold, letting the parachute fall as my hands wrap around a branch while my feet find another below. The silver material floats off in the wind, getting farther and farther until it catches on another tree not too far off. I smile at it, my saviour, before slowly beginning to descend the tree.

Well, I'll definitely have some explaining to do to my allies.

* * *

><p><strong>Imogen Torrini, District 9 Female<strong>

Since the bloodbath, I feel like I've been asleep, stuck in a never-ending nightmare of pain, terror and loss. And it is a nightmare, no question. But this is real.

Everything seems to pass over me in a haze; I can register the presence of Achilles and our other little ally we picked up and I can have small conversations with them, but even that is hard. Once I tried sitting up. I passed out for hours. After that, I just learned to stay still and lie down on the grass. I can tell that my allies have been working around the clock to try and help and I wish I could pretend that everything's getting better, but it just . . . it hurts. _So much_. And I just want to go home. Back to Rachel, back to my mother and father, my siblings. Back to Noah. I don't even have his ring anymore. The brute from Seven must have taken it.

The tsunami of pain and despair threatens to overwhelm me again and for a second I ponder the idea of just letting it overtake me. I've tried so hard to keep it at bay, to try and stay strong because I know the others back home are being forced to watch this. But still, the tears begin to form behind my closed eyelids and I barely suppress the whimper running through me. Why is this happening to me?

"Imogen . . ."

Achilles voice, echoing somewhere above me. But I barely register it, and as he talks I feel something sharp jab into me. My instinct is to flinch away, horrifying memories of the bloodbath and the razor-edged knives Rowan had used on me, but I can't even manage to make myself move away from what I'm positive must be a weapon. _Your allies wouldn't hurt you, _I tell myself. But I still can't get the thought out of my head.

At some point, I pass out, and a while later I'm aware that the pain, while still present, a roaring, raging lion intent on destroying me, seems somewhat dulled, if only slightly. The relief is so beautiful, I almost want to cry. But I just let myself relish the smaller amount of agony. Eventually, I drift off again, and this time, she comes to me in my dream.

"Rachel," I whisper, the smallest of smiles appearing on my face as I fall back into oblivion.

* * *

><p><em>In District 9 . . .<em>

**Rachel Torrini**

I don't know much about the Game, but Mommy doesn't look like she's having fun. She was when she was riding the thing behind the horses and when she was talking with the man with the funny-coloured hair, but once she went onto the tower she stopped smiling. And then the evil boy appeared and painted Mommy red with sharp, silver paintbrushes. She was screaming. Mommy never screams. And so I started crying, because there must be something wrong. Grandma took me away from the TV after that.

But I want to see Mommy again. I'm worried that she will forget about me if I go away. Grandma didn't want me too, but a man in white showed up at our house so she quickly got me from my room and put me on her lap in front of the TV with Grandpa and all their kids too. I don't know where Daddy went. I thought he loved Mommy. But he gets sad and mad whenever they show her on the TV and he leaves the house and goes away somewhere for awhile.

The nice boy and the little girl were on the TV before, arguing about something. But then the boy took something from the girl and went over to Mommy. I don't know what he was doing, but it looked like it hurt so I started crying for Mommy again. Grandma looked out the window to check for the man in white, and then brought me back up to my room. I played with my dolly for a while, but I was worried that Mommy was forgetting about me. So that's why stand up now and go out of my room. I take a bit long on the stairs, but I'm a big girl now; five years old. I can do stairs without anyone's help. I'm still waiting for my fifth birthday wish to come true though.

Grandpa and Grandma are sitting on the couch watching the TV and I walk towards them. Mommy's on the TV! I start running and Grandma notices and tries to pick me up but I need to get to Mommy so I run around her. I put my hand on the TV and stare at Mommy, hoping that she knows I'm still watching her. Hoping that she hasn't forgotten about me. And then she opens her mouth on the TV and says something.

"Rachel."

That's my name!

"She knows I'm here!" I shout to Grandma, who smiles but in a sad way and picks me up. I don't know why she's sad though; Mommy knows I'm here! I look back at the TV and ask, "Mommy, you're coming back to me, right?"

Mommy doesn't answer, but Grandma says, "Of course she is, honey." I smile and she starts taking me back up to my room. But I can't fall asleep; I'm still smiling. Mommy hasn't forgotten about me. And Grandma never lies. So she's going to come home to me.

My birthday wish is going to come true!


	39. Smash Her, Wince, Repeat

_**Okay, I have a good excuse for this chapter taking so long. Ready for it?**_

_**It's 11 000 freaking words!**_

_**Yep, longest chapter yet. Sorry to those of you who hate long chapters :) Hunker down, because there's gonna be some whoppers coming up. Stuff happens :) I said I wasn't going to let the action up, and I'm trying to do exactly that. Oh, and I'm going to warn you that things get a bit... creepy in this chapter. At least, creepy for my story (don't know how it might compare to other SYOTs). Just a little warning for the slightly squeamish out ther :)**_

_**Anyways, enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

Three days. That's how long it's been since I first arrived at the castle. Three days and not a single run in with another tribute. Or anything else for that matter. Thank goodness, because after seeing the horrible ways in which some of them have died, I don't think I ever want to leave the comfort of this place again.

The first day had passed without incident; I'd found a decent supply of weapons, managed to get some hunting done in the bits of forest nearest the castle and had my first taste of meat in what felt like ages but had really only been four days. And in that moment, despite being in the arena, I'd laughed. Here I was, living and eating like a king (the food might not have been comparable to the Capitol delicacies, but in the district my family and I got by only on what little I could manage to steal) while the others were who knew where, probably cold and hungry and injured. In the back of my mind, I knew it couldn't last; after all, I couldn't imagine that the Gamemakers were too happy with my stunt back at the bloodbath. There was always the chance that they might try something, set off one of the numerous traps that I'm sure were hidden in the small castle. But I guess there's been enough action or whatnot going on with the other tributes because I've been completely left to myself. It's been wonderful. And incredibly nerve-wracking. Now I don't even walk the halls without holding at least a sword in my grasp. Especially after what happened two days ago.

I'd been up on the battlements of the castle, always the best spot to watch the arena; I could see nearly everything from up there – the forest, the tower and the mountains in the distance. I don't know if it was just an inherent trait or just something that came with years of having my less than legal occupation, but I've always loved high places. Rooftops, treetops; nothing can hide from you when you're up there. So I was just scoping out the area, not really looking for anything in particular; I doubted that any of the other tributes might have tried to make it out here, but it was always a possibility. However, once I saw the fire, heard the roar and then watched as that gigantic . . . _thing_ rose into the air, I would have given anything to have spotted a few murderous tributes instead.

I'd run back into the castle, the solid stone walls feeling a lot less secure as I dashed through the halls and into one room I'd been using to sleep in. And there I stayed, frozen in a corner and trying to remind myself that this thing looked like it was built to withstand anything, even a huge, fire-breathing, bloodthirsty monster. I can honestly say that I don't believe there was ever a moment where I was more terrified; and then, I heard the cannons.

After seeing the tapestries on the first day, I'd made a promise to myself that I'd never, _ever_ go near them again. But all of that changed when, over the roars of the dragon mutt, two cannons boomed out through the arena. I told myself to stay where I was, that I didn't need to see the horrors woven into gruesome images; it bothered me all day. And finally, after lying awake for a good two hours, I got out of bed and slowly descended the stairs to the throne room. It was almost a subconscious thing, like I was sleepwalking; I didn't really even realise where my feet were taking me until I stood right in front of the two newest additions to the tapestry wall. And that's when I paid the price for curiosity.

I shudder at the memory, going at my pile of supplies and supporting them with a renewed haste, if only to get the images out of my head. They were just so _lifelike_; I could almost _smell_ the burning scent emanating from the two bodies, hear the roar of the dragon as it closed in on the two helpless tributes. I wouldn't have even known who they were, the bodies were so mutilated in the pictures, had I not checked out the window that night to see whose face lit up the night sky during the anthem.

The most eerie part though, was yet to come. In a fit of frightened rage, aimed at what I'm not entirely sure, I'd slashed one of the tapestries in two that night. And the next morning, when I'd followed some odd, unexplainable urge to go check on the images, I'd found it exactly where it had been earlier. Only it was back to being whole.

After that, I'd made myself a complete, solid, _real_ promise to never go near the room again. And so far, I haven't been tempted to break it.

In fact, I spend most of my time on the second floor of the castle, needlessly sorting and resorting my supplies and sometimes practicing with the weapons I found here; it can be tedious, but it's a heck of a lot better than spending every moment in the arena with my life on the line, running from traps or mutts or other tributes. Just the word "mutt" causes me to reflectively glance out the window, double-checking the skies for any winged beasts that might be inhabiting it. But the air is clear of dragons; as it has been the past forty-some odd times I looked. I sigh and swing my sword through the air again, practicing against an imaginary opponent. I need to get a new hobby soon, something that's more distracting; otherwise my neck is going to pop off my shoulders with all this paranoid looking over my shoulder.

_BAM!_

It's almost as if I was expecting the noise; I tense instantly, whirling around to face the door with my sword held in front of me, ready to parry any oncoming attack. But there's no one there. I frown, keeping my sword aloft as I make my way towards the door; my foot nudges it and it swings further out, allowing me a view of the corridor outside. My eyes dart from side to side, seeking out anything or anyone out of the ordinary, but after sweeping the area three times, I realise that there's nothing weird out there. My frown deepens, weapon still up; did I imagine the noise? No, I couldn't possibly have; there must be another tribute in the castle. I step into the hall, sword at the ready, and the thought occurs to me that there's a small part of my mind actually _happy_ for this, wanting some sort of action instead of waiting and waiting, left only to imagine what might happen to me in this place. Back in the district, I was always on the move, never stopping and thinking; just acting. And now that I've stopped and thought for three days, I've remembered why I hated it so much.

_BAM!_

This time, I do jump, spinning around as the sound emerges once more from behind me. My eyes dart from door to door, scanning the entire length of the hall for some sort of movement, anything that could have been the source of the noise.

But there's nothing there.

"What the heck?" I whisper, taking a hesitant step down the corridor, sword still held out and prepared to attack at the slightest hint of motion. There _has_ to be someone here; that sound was too loud to have come from anywhere other than right behind me. So unless the tribute is invisible, they're bound to be here. Unless . . .

_You're crazy, _I think to myself, finally lowering the weapon and staring down the now obviously empty hall. _You've been cooped up in here too long with nothing going on, and the tension's caused you to snap. So now you're hearing things. Wonderful._

"You're going the wrong way, silly."

My heart stops as the words echo down the corridor and instead of whirling around like I'd done with the other noises, this disturbance causes every muscle in me to freeze, making me feel as though someone injected ice water into my veins as the blood drains from my face. I should turn around, face this newcomer with my sword outstretched, but it's all I can do not to drop the sword thanks to the cold sweat that now covers my hands. Because I know that voice. And it isn't a tribute.

It's my sister.

"P-Penny?" I manage to stammer as I finally manage to get my frozen body to shift, rotating around to face the person whose head is poking around the archway at the other end of the hall. And there she is, brown eyes gazing innocently at me, blonde hair pulled behind her back; a rare feature in Eleven, something said to have come from our father, who died before we really got a chance to know him. I was only five at the time, our mother still pregnant with Erina. My mother always said that I got his eyes, Penny got his hair and Erina got his quiet, serene personality.

"Come _on_, Dylian," the thing in the doorway says; I still can't believe that it could possibly be my sister. There's something . . . off, something different about her. If I could just put my finger on it. "Aren't you tired of doing nothing? Besides, Mom and Erina are waiting."

All I can do is stare at her, my mouth moving and forming words that I'll never utter aloud. This . . . this can't be happening. Can it? No, no, it can't. Can't. But nonetheless, the person at the end of the hall is still looking at me expectantly, the same way my real sister does when she's waiting for me to say something. Though all I can manage is a stuttered, "W-what?"

Penny . . . the girl . . . the thing just smiles slightly and suddenly her head disappears, small footsteps echoing through the now empty hallway as she begins to move away. I'm no idiot, and having spent years being one of the most wanted people in District 11, I know a trap when I see one, but I still can't stop my feet from shuffling forwards as I start hesitantly towards the end of the hall. Over and over my mind is repeating _idiot, idiot, idiot, _but I just _have_ to see. It's not possible for any of my family members to be here in the arena. Completely impossible.

But I still have to check.

I glance down the connecting corridor when I reach the arch Penny was hiding behind, but she's no longer there; instead I'm met with another completely empty hall. No, wait; footsteps are coming from behind a wooden door nearby, one I know to lead all the way up to the top of the tallest tower here. I lick my lips nervously, sword still held by my side, but not up and ready to attack. Because there _is _nothing to attack. Just my sister. Or not my sister. I don't know, I can't even begin to comprehend what's going on and even I'm positive this is a trap, I just can't help but feel a small seed of hope welling inside of me at the thought of potentially seeing my family again.

Up and up the stairs, Penny's footsteps always dancing just out of sight, loud enough for me to hear but never close enough for me to catch sight of her again. And along with the consistent pattering of her feet, my short, hesitant breaths and what seems like the deafening _thud_ of my heart racing is another sound, one so faint that half the time I feel like I must be imagining it. Who knows, maybe I'm imagining all of this. But the noise is enough to put me back on my guard, snap me slightly out of the daze brought on by seeing one of my family members in the last place I'd ever expect to cross one of them. Because that sound, the slight slithering as though someone's dragging a large piece of cloth, or maybe a huge rope around with them, reminds me _way_ too much of a snake. Being the agriculture district, snakes aren't uncommon animals to spot, gliding through piles of crop and slipping through the tall grass in the fields, always popping up when and where you least expect them to be. They're not animals I'm particularly fond of.

Finally, after what seems like thousands of steps, I hear the creak of a door opening and slamming quickly shut. Moments later, I reach said door, plain and wooden like its counterpart I went through earlier. My grip tightens on my sword, but I still make no move to raise it, torn between thinking about my family and what kind of sick trap the Gamemakers might have planned. But I'll never know if I don't open the door; I sigh and, taking a deep breath, swing it open and come back, face to face, with Penny.

It's impossible for it not to be her. The similarities I saw from far away are undeniable now that I'm seeing her up close. Still, there's that same feeling I had before, that _something_ is different. It's almost like the times back home, whenever my friend Catel would come up to Joh and I, hinting that there was something new about her appearance. She'd always be annoyed when we couldn't guess what it was; Cat had this amazing sense for detecting instantly if you cut your hair or bought new shoes or whatnot. Mind you, so did my sisters; I always assumed it was a girl thing. And now, for the first time in my life, I'm feeling those distinct vibes that tell me something's different. Maybe it's what Penny's wearing; her purple dress might be considered simple by Capitol standards, but no one in Eleven could _ever_ afford something like that. Certainly not my family.

"Where're Mom and Erina?" I ask, unable to tear my gaze away from her own, as though the explanation to this craziness is hidden inside her dark brown eyes. "You said they'd be here."

"I lied," she says, and the whole sweet little girl act she seemed to be putting on disappears immediately. "They're dead."

The world seems to spin, and suddenly I can't get any air into my lungs, while my heart seems to freeze over. Dead? _Dead? _No, no, it's not possible, they can't be _dead_! This is a trap, some mind game the Gamemakers are playing; or maybe I really am crazy, imagining all of this. Whatever it is, this isn't really my sister talking about my real family because they can't possibly be dead, there's no-

"Mom tried to feed us with her job, but it wasn't enough." Even though the world seems to have gone fuzzy around me, Penny's words still manage to be heard over the roaring wave of panicked thoughts whirling through my mind. "And then she was so worried about you, so distracted by the Games, that she messed up. She was fired. So we had no food and no way to get it. We starved."

I finally pull my attention back to her, forcing my eyes to focus once again on the figure of my sister, only to watch in horror as she begins to transform. Her cheeks, stomach and other pockets of skin begin to sink inwards, eyes earning a hollow look and bones becoming sickeningly pronounced – it's like watching someone starve, only incredibly sped up. My stomach turns as she raises a stick-like arm and I have to fight the urge not to throw up, instead choosing to back away from the thing that now in no way resembles my sister. She notices though, and laughs.

"Disgusting, isn't it? Well, live with it Dylian, because _you _caused this. You did this to us; you _abandoned _us."

"No," I whisper. "No, I-" However no other sounds escape my mouth, throat choking in the middle of my protest as I begin to wonder if I really _did _cause this destruction. No, that's not possible, I can't have; I didn't abandon them, I had no choice! But even as I think it, part of my mind is going back to the moment I was reaped, when I felt that surge of relief, of _happiness_ to have escaped prosecution at the hands of the Peacekeepers. Maybe it is my fault; maybe it's all my fault.

No, I can't think like that; my shaking hand manages to find the door handle behind me and my fingers immediately curl around it, trying frantically to get it open. This has to be a trap, nothing else makes sense; that means this is _not _my sister and she can_not _be trusted. Whatever thoughts I have I can deal with back in my safety room away from this tower, this trap and this girl. Who might not be a girl at all; it dawns on me what was so different about her just as something snakes around my ankle, yanking me off-balance and dragging me away from the door.

"Funny, during the starvation, everything about me stopped growing," Penny says, though now her voice sounds more maniacal, even less like my sister than before. "Except one thing."

My leg's released but I barely have a second to act on this newfound freedom before something seizes my throat, lifting me into the air and slamming me against the back wall of the tower, effectively knocking the air from my lungs. Which I realise is a really, _really _bad thing a moment later, when I gasp and try to get my breath back, only to discover that I can't. The thing tightening quicker and quicker around my chocking throat is like a living organism, and must have been the source of the slithering I heard earlier. Only this is no snake; it's _hair_.

I barely hear the mad cackle that comes from Penny, but at the fading edges of my vision I catch a glimpse of her, though she's almost unrecognisable. Her eyes have gone all black, and she looks almost like a puppet whose strings were cut, only suspended by the golden tendrils of hair which extend upwards, then curve around the room and end wrapped tightly around my neck. It's like she's just another organ, while the real living creature exists in the metres and metres of snake-like blonde tresses. She's just part of a mutt. Which makes me feel a whole lot better about killing it.

Just as I'm about to pass out from lack of air, I remember the sword still held loosely in my hand. With my last remaining bits of strength, I swing it up and directly towards the nearest bit of hair, slicing cleanly through the thousands of strands. The Penny-mutt lets out an agonising shriek as part of it is severed, twitching tendrils falling to the floor along with me. As soon as I regain my balance, I try to scramble quickly to my feet, but that's easier said than done when you've nearly had the life squeezed out of you. My vision's still fading in and out of focus as I try to steady myself against a nearby chair, but apparently the mutt doesn't take as long to recover. Whirling around to face me, the thing that once resembled my sister shrieks something unintelligible, and that golden snake begins to slither slowly towards me once more. But at this point I've regained enough sense to anticipate the attack, and force my still-recovering body to lunge to the side as it makes to grab me again. It doesn't stop though, continuing through before swiping low across the floor, knocking my legs out from under me. I fall hard, taking care to make sure my already addled brain doesn't hit the ground and roll instantly to the left as the hair plunges towards me. _Now get up!_ my mind practically shrieks as I end up all the way near the other end of the room, almost hitting the bookshelf that rests against the wall. I quickly push myself up to my elbows, scanning the area for my opponent, but the sight of the empty room stops me short. What? This fight can't possibly be over; no, the Gamemakers wouldn't want their genius idea for a trap to go to waste. So where . . .

The realisation hits me just as a small creak is heard from the rafters above. Slowly, my head begins to tilt upwards, eyes lifting until I meet the dark, soulless gaze of the mutt, suspended in the air by its hair and swinging back and forth with an almost pendulum-like movement. There's a silent second where the two of us just stare at each other; then my muscles tense and I spring up to my feet as the mutt shrieks in delight, and out of the corner of my eye I see the edge of its hair, which I hadn't noticed before, snaking its way across the wall. Upon realising that I've spotted it, the giant blonde lock hits the bookcase behind me and too late, I realise that its intention wasn't to attack me directly. Instinct takes over and I don't even think as I leap to the side, but a tendril wraps around my arm before I do and yanks me back mid-jump, causing me to fall back to the floor in a heap. I shake my head, trying to clear it from the impact and manage to get my brain working again just as the first book starts to fall. Then all I can do is wrap my arms around my head, curl into a ball and prepare for the impact.

Once, many winters ago, there was an enormous hailstorm that ravaged our district. We'd only received about fifteen minutes notice; nowhere near the time it would have required to save our crops. Still, despite the warnings, many people ran out, trying to gather as much food as they could. I was one of those attempting to help; before I'd learned to steal, I'd tried to pick up odd jobs around the district to supply our family with enough money to survive. In the end, none of us managed to save anything that could be eaten, and most of us wound up having to be treated by the district healers for bruises, concussions and, in one or two really bad cases, broken bones. It was thoroughly awful, and an experience I'd hoped never to go through again.

Now, though, it feels almost as if I'm back running through the district during the storm, though the cascade of books lasts for seconds as opposed to hours. Still, what follows the downpour of tomes is the much, much heavier shelf, and as one portion slams against my forearm while another crashes into my hip, I decide that maybe there are worse things to be hit by then chunks of falling ice.

Of course, I'd take being buried under a bookshelf any day over being attacked by a mutt resembling my sister armed with golden, snake-like hair. But just as the wave of falling items stop and I manage to get past the pain of the giant bruises I can feel forming all over my body, finally remembering what the real threat is, the shelf is lifted and flung across the room, breaking to pieces as it makes contact with the stone wall. For one second, I get a small sensation of relief at the fact that there's no longer something huge and heavy trying to crush me, but any comfort I felt at all disappears as something wraps around my arms and chest, tightening to the point where I'm positive I can hear my bones crack before once again slamming me against a wall, making the nearby candelabra shudder violently, the flames casting an eerie aura over the room. An aura that is immediately amplified as the mutt's body comes into view, pitch black eyes fixed on me and wielding a _very_ familiar sword in its hand. My eyes widen and I try to struggle out of the iron grip holding me in place, but as the result is the hair around me tightening to the point where it feels as though my lungs are going to pop like balloons, I'm forced to stop. Instead all I can do is watch as the mutt that once resembled my sister comes closer, grinning with teeth that somehow have transformed so that they're almost like miniature replicas of the weapon it now holds. I swallow hard, trying to inch my head away from the approaching monster, but I've got a wall to my back and nowhere else I can move; it does _not _look good for me. The mutt seems to be thinking along the same lines because its smiles widens, sword reaching out and absentmindedly tracing one of my cheeks, not leaving any trails of blood behind. Yet.

"You see, this is why you don't abandon family," the thing begins to say, still in its odd, demonic parody of my sister's voice. "Because we have a nasty habit of popping back in on you when you expect it. Or want it. We never go away. We're like . . ." The creature pauses, sword tip resting on the edge of my cheekbone. "An itch you can never scratch."

I can barely muffle my shout as, without warning, the blade slices into my flesh, tracing a large, deep path from the front of my face back towards my right ear. Damn, that _stings._ I bite my lip, trying to keep any further moans or groans from escaping my lips as I fight to get the pain under control, telling myself that I can deal with it, it's not too bad, having a sword scrape so deep it hits bone is just a part of life . . .

The pointed tip of the sword, now slick and wet with my blood, nudges my chin and forces me to either look up or let the blade plunge straight through my face. I muster all the energy I can into throwing a vicious, green-eyed glare at the mutt, but it's not like it helps; if anything, it just makes the thing more eager to go to work. And then I realise that that's exactly what its plan is; no longer is it just trying to suffocate or strangle me. No, now's the time for the Gamemakers to have their fun. _This is what you get Dylian, _I think, closing my eyes and trying to stifle my cries as the sword begins to carve its way up my face. _You showed the Gamemakers up in the bloodbath, and now they can have their revenge. And there's nothing you can do except hang here and try and forget the fact that your face feels like it's on fire._

_Fire._

Okay; time for a plan.

The mutt cackles as the sword tip drags up past my other cheek, and I grimace, trying to struggle away but the blade continues its path; at this rate, it'll hit my eye. And I will _not_ let this monster leave me blind.

Without warning, I kick my leg out towards the candelabra, hooking my foot around the golden stand and yanking it towards me. It tips over, the mutt not realising what it was for until the four candles make contact with the creature's hair.

You'd think someone had doused the strands in gasoline; they light instantly and the mutt shrieks and falls back while I thankfully do the same, the length of hair connecting me to the mutt dissolving away as the tendrils of flame probe up and down the golden surface. I quickly detach myself from the mass of blonde tresses still loosely wrapped around my arms, watching as the fire reduces them to a pile of ash in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, the mutt's hysterical cries reach a new level as every inch of its hair begins to turn black and dead; it's only when there's about a foot left that it seems to remember me and turns, its face a mask of pure hatred. "You."

Releasing a crazed scream, the mutt leaps at me, and with no magic, elongated hair to attack with, it extends bony hands topped off with razor sharp, talon-like fingernails. I dive out of the way, part of my tribute uniform ripping as it tries to slice at me again, but before it can come back for a third attack my hands find the sword it abandoned once it'd been lit on fire and I don't hesitate to plunge it straight through the mutt's body.

A black, tar-like substance begins to seep immediately from the wound, turning the purple fabric of the thing's dress dark as more and more of what I assume to be the mutt's blood begins to pour out, slowly but surely killing it. I slide the sword out and the monster crashes to the ground, the few inches of its remaining hair still burning, what seems like litres of the unnatural black life fluid pumping out of the injury. I take a step away, sword still raised in case it somehow comes back from this, but all it does is collapse on the floor, mouth moving soundlessly. Our eyes meet and a shift occurs in the mutt's face, soulless eyes turning back to normal, teeth points dulling back to usual size and shape, cheeks ballooning outwards and helping the face seem more normal, not like a crazed, starved monster. And suddenly, I'm watching not a monster die, but my sister, as she chokes out a last breath and stares up at me with an accusing look that I'll never, _ever_ be able to forget. Then her eyes go dark.

The shock causes me to freeze, but only for a moment; then I'm racing back out of the room, back down the stairs, barely paying attention to the burning cuts on my face. I don't care what condition I am, I don't care that I don't have a properly assembled pack or bag of weapons, none of it's going to stop me from leaving this castle and _never_ looking back.

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

In any normal Hunger Games arena, it would be hard for a week to pass without the remaining tributes becoming a _bit _on edge. But when said arena is based on a whole bunch of old, crazy fairytales, and you just happen to be stuck in a cave, in the dark with only a bunch of booby traps to keep you company, well that starts to wear your nerves down a heck of a lot more.

"See anything weird?" I whisper to Taralo, who's been dutifully keeping his eyes peeled for the past who knows how many hours since we stopped our latest rest break and restarted our attempt to find our way out of the cave. Thanks to his observance and knowledge of the stories, we've managed to narrowly avoid death at the hands of deadly pitfalls, cascading rocks and, in one odd case, a trap that shot what seemed like spiked balls at us, though Gwen swears that they'd resembled some sort of animal indigenous to District 7 called a "hedgehog."

"Oh, for goodness sake," Gwen snaps from somewhere up ahead. "We just finished getting out of that last trap, we're not going to stumble right into another one."

"Because, you know, it's not like we haven't been doing _that_ this entire time," I mutter back.

Taralo looks from one of us to the other. "Actually, that's exactly what we've been doing this entire time."

I sigh; really should start teaching him to pick up on sarcasm. Meanwhile Gwen lets out a little "huff" of irritation before stepping up her pace, purposefully striding ahead and putting as much distance between us and her as she can. I force myself to bite back a retort about how she's going to get herself killed by going forward before Taralo's had a chance to look around.

Frankly, we've all been a bit . . . restless lately. I mean, this cave certainly hasn't done anything to help our spirits, but we were never exactly a relaxed group. Taralo's just recently been getting over his petrification of the outside world, Gwen's been acting weird and trying to get us as far away from the Careers as possible since the bloodbath (something that I'm beginning to think has to do with her crazy, murderous district partner) and I've started to notice that I'm developing an extreme case of nervousness here in the arena. Oh yeah, other tributes better watch out; here comes the Paranoia Squad.

Though as superior as Gwen acts and as terrified as Taralo can be sometimes, I'd much rather have them here then be wandering around alone in this place. For one, I'd be dead in the first minute I stepped in here on my own. But, despite their flaws, I really do like my allies, and I think that, once we get past our differences, we actually make a pretty good team. I mean, there's always that nagging thought that only one of us can live and all, but come on. More than half the tributes are still alive at this point, I don't need to think about that. But the thought plagues my sleep, which is already restless thanks to the fact that we're napping inside a freaking death cave; the nightmares come quickly and violently – images of Gwen dying, Taralo dying, slowly murdered by other tributes or some sort of gruesome trap in this cave. I know I signed up for this when I went looking for allies, but that doesn't make it any easier to wrap my head around the fact that by the end of all this, we'll be lucky to have one of us left alive. I just don't want to watch these two good kids have to die.

"Will you hurry it up? I've found something."

Taralo and I look at each other, or rather, what little we can see of our outlines in the darkness before following the sound of Gwen's voice into a large, hollowed out cavern. No other caves lead off of it, there's no other way out, just a big empty space containing one large object.

"A bed?" I frown in confusion, taking a step forwards before remembering the disastrous effect this had the first time we came across a trap in the cave. Really need to get on that looking before leaping thing.

Or, in this scenario, getting someone else to look for me; almost as one, Gwen and I turn to Taralo, who's staring at the beds, brow furrowed in concentration before he looks off to one side. "Only one," he says to what appears to be an empty spot beside him. "So it can't be . . . Wait, is it . . ."

I start tuning him out, knowing this conversation will only make sense to him and "Zephyr," as he calls his imaginary friend. Gwen rolls her eyes, forever finding his conversations like this "disturbing," and sets about rifling through our basket of supplies. We still have water from the stream and exactly three apples left from our sponsor gift (one for each of us if Gwen wasn't allergic), but we've been mostly getting by in the cave eating rats and other small mammals we see scurrying around. Gross, but when the alternative is starvation, much preferable. Taralo, never having had much to eat when he was hidden in his house was actually the best on getting by on little food; in Five, my family's relatively middle class, so it was a bit of an adjustment, especially after the week of mouth-watering delicacies in the Capitol. But however tough it was for me, it was _way_ harder a transition for Gwen. Since she couldn't eat the fruit, that left her with only meat as an option, and turns out she was raised on a sort of vegetarian diet. Animals are friends, not food and all that. For almost two days she went without eating anything, the war between hunger and morals waging inside her. Finally, last night, she gave in, sitting down with Taralo and I at the tiny fire we'd managed to create from pieces of wood belonging to another narrowly avoided booby trap and asking quietly if we could hand her a piece of the unidentifiable animal we were roasting (it had looked like a rat, smelled like a fish and tasted like a sock. Stumped us as to what it was) That night was weird in so many ways; she didn't call out orders, organise anything or even talk. Just sat there silently with her eyes trained on the ground, as though she'd been caught doing something unspeakably awful. Which, when you consider how she was raised and all, I guess was probably a pretty accurate description of what she figured she'd done.

"That's it!"

I shake myself out of the memories of the first time our female ally's vulnerability really shone through and turn back to Taralo, who's smiling slightly at his imaginary friend. "Well?" Gwen asks sharply and he glances nervously at her before looking down, a guilty and somewhat scared look crossing his face. Watching the two of them interact after the events of _that _afternoon (Gwen wouldn't let me refer to it as the Kissing Day) has been pretty hilarious. One seems terrified while the other gets irritable; but _both_ are still extremely embarrassed. I'd had fun teasing them about it for a little while, until I'd caught myself singing the same song Clay had been annoying me with on reaping day. For a second, I'd felt just like him; and let me tell you, that was a _scary_ feeling.

"Um, I think it's . . . from the w-weird fairytale . . ." Taralo stutters, determinedly trying not to make eye contact with Gwen. We'll be here all day if he continues talking at a pace like this, and Gwen seems just about to open her mouth and point that out when I intervene. Anything she says is bound to just slow him down more.

"What weird fairytale?"

Looking slightly relieved, our ally turns his attention to me, the words flowing a lot easier now that he's talking to someone who isn't glaring daggers at him. "The one about the boy who did know . . . fear."

"What?" These stories seem to be based off of the strangest things.

"I thought it was weird too. I can't picture n-not being afraid." Taralo shudders slightly, one hand clenching around his necklace thing like it does whenever he's nervous. "But the boy didn't know how to shudder. And he-he wanted to learn too. So he went to a whole bunch of terrifying places, but he never found it scary."

"Huh." I look back towards the bed in the middle of the room. "Did he ever learn how to shudder?"

"Well-"

"Argh, it doesn't matter!" Gwen says, stepping between us. "The point is, what does this bed have to do with it?"

Taralo takes a step back, startled by her sudden outburst. Great, way to go Gwen; now we'll be back to the stuttering phase. I sigh, watching as she stares down our nervous ally, who seems to be swallowing nervously, trying to control his fear. It's funny, he's gotten a lot better at dealing with trees, rocks, animals and other stuff that freaked him out before, but Gwen is one terrifying obstacle he just can't seem to get past. "I-I think that . . . we have to . . . get on it."

"_What_?" Taralo flinches at the sharpness of her words. "Are you kidding me?"

His answer is so quiet, the two of us have to strain to hear it. "That's what happened in the book."

"Oh, well that's just wonderful then. Of _course_ we'll walk straight into an obvious trap just because the _book_ said so. Why not?"

"Hey, following the fairytales has gotten us this far," I say back.

"So that's your justification for just jumping into something that's so clearly part of some Gamemaker plot?"

"Well, if you didn't notice, there isn't exactly another way _out_. And I'm not all that keen on backtracking and being attacked by those henchhogs again."

"_Hedgehogs_. And better to know what we're walking into then stumble into the unknown."

"So you just want us to keep wandering around the parts of the cave we know until we die down here?"

"No, but we can't just barrel into something without thinking it through."

"It's a bed. From a fairytale. That could potentially get us out of here. Consider it "thought through.""

"Ugh, you're so-"

_BAM!_

The two of us are jolted out of our argument as the loud sound of a footstep echoes through the cavern. Slowly, we turn away from each other and to Taralo, who's taken a step towards the bed and looking thoroughly terrified, though it's more like he's scared of us and what we might do instead of whatever trap he might set off. But as the silence continues, he opens his mouth to speak, one hand nearly strangling his necklace, it's holding on so tight. "I-I think that I'm going . . . t-to check it out."

Gwen and I just stare blankly at him, completely surprised at this turn of events. We glance at each other out of the corner of our eyes, then turn back to our trembling ally, who seems at the same time determined and petrified of going out there; I can't just let him go alone. Besides, it's just a bed. What's the worst that could happen?

"Alright buddy, let's check it out," I say and he relaxes instantly as I step forward, taking the lead; though his grip still doesn't loosen on his necklace. Gwen mutters something decidedly unfriendly behind me, but after a moment I just hear her sigh in resignation and slowly follow us out towards the center of the cavern, where the bed waits. It certainly doesn't _seem_ dangerous; but then again, we've been in this cave long enough to know that the Gamemakers have surprisingly creative imaginations when it comes to trying to cause pain to tributes with the most seemingly mundane objects.

Still, we reach the edge of the bed with nothing eventful happening, and after a moment's hesitation I even place a hand on one of the embroidered pillows. Nothing; no fire, no deadly spikes or razor sharp weapons emerging. It looks pretty much like a normal bed.

However, my allies are still less than sure.

"Okay, we came, we saw, now can we _leave_?" Gwen hisses from behind me.

Taralo, meanwhile, is staring at the bed, a mixture of apprehension and confusion on his face. "What did it do in the book?" I whisper to him.

"It . . . moved," he says slowly, still eyeing the bed as though he's expecting it to jump up and eat him at any moment. I follow his gaze, staring hard at the pillows and blankets; nope, just a bunch of motionless lumps.

"Well, _that_ was a waste of time," I say, turning reluctantly away. I mean, don't get me wrong, I _much_ prefer this over any sort of terrifying, potentially fatal trap, but with no other cavern to turn into we'll have to backtrack for ages, which means more wandering around in this creepy place and, on top of that, _knowing _that we're not heading for the exit. Kind of makes a guy want to just curl up on a bed and cry and the absolute hopelessness of it all.

And this bed, apparently, is thinking along the same lines because the next second something crashes into the back of my knees and I fall, landing with an "oof" on the creaky, lumpy mattress of the bed. I lie there in shock for a few seconds, not exactly sure _what _just happened, and Gwen and Taralo must have had a similar reaction because neither of them manages to shake themselves out of their surprise before the bed careens forwards, knocking their legs out from under them as well. The two tumble next to me and before either of us have a chance to say anything, the now suddenly very-much-alive bed shoots out towards the entrance of the cavern like a rocket.

Three identical screams reverberate off of the rocky walls as we barrel through the cave at an unimaginable speed, wind whipping through my hair and wiping out every sound other than the shouts of fear from my allies in a roaring wave of noise. Suddenly we whip around a corner and with a sickening lurch my heart feels like its sunk straight into my stomach as I slide about a foot down the bed, my feet now dangling wildly off the edge. I let out a yelp and my fingers scramble desperately over the loose bed sheets, trying to find something solid to hang onto, but all my reaching hand manages to grasp is air. Another panicked cry escapes my lips as I slip another few inches and I screw my eyes shut, knowing that in a few seconds I'm going to fall to my doom off of a speeding bed and onto the hard, probably pointy rocks below. Oh man, what a way to-

Warm fingers intertwine with my own and tense, trying to heave me back onto the safety of the mattress. My eyes shoot open and I quickly work to help in their effort, my legs paddling through the air wildly as I try to find purchase. With one good kick to the bed, I manage to scramble back on in a (relatively) safe position and look over to see Gwen, one hand wrapped tightly around a post while the other was, of course, responsible for just saving my life. Behind her I can just see Taralo, clutching the headboard with a face paler than a pillow, mouth moving in some sort of soundless prayer. At least they're okay; you know, if you can say you're okay when you're on top of some sort of live bed, holding on for dear life and knowing that at any second this thing might steer right into a solid wall of rock and crush you like a bug.

"You alright?" I ask, trying to shout over the roar of the wind in my ears.

"Oh, yeah, fine!" she yells back; well, it must be something if she can manage to use sarcasm in a situation like this. "So whose stupid idea was this?"

I choose to ignore that and instead focus on Taralo. "What do we do to stop it?"

He doesn't seem to hear, eyes still screwed tightly shut, and it's only after Gwen manages to kick him in the leg that he flinches and looks over at us. "Taralo! What. Do. We. Do?"

I can tell immediately that his response isn't going to be a good one; the way what little blood remaining in his face drains immediately, how his pupils dilate in terror. Then again, it's a look he wears often, so maybe it won't be _too_ bad.

"We have to tell it to go faster."

Or not.

"Are you insane?" Gwen shouts, her black hair flying wildly behind her as she attempts to turn her disbelieving gaze on Taralo.

Honestly, I can't help but side with her on this one. "Taralo, are you _sure_ that's how it happened in the book?" I yell over to him.

Our gazes lock and despite the completely terrifying circumstances that I would have expected to put him into some sort of a state of shock, there's a small light of determination in his eyes when he replies. "Yes."

Gwen stares from him to me, utter shock written all over her face. "Are you serious? You're going to get us killed!"

Just then, the bed rounds another sharp corner and all three of us slip, fingers frantically scrambling around while more cries of panic echo off the rocky walls. Taralo and I, being at either end, manage to get a firmer grip on the nearby bedposts, but Gwen's not in such a lucky position; she slides another half a foot down, a small shriek escaping her lips as her feet nearly brush the stone floor below, which is racing past us at an alarming speed. Or rather, _we're_ racing past _it_.

Without thinking, I release one of my hands from their stranglehold on the wooden post and reach it down towards the struggling Gwen while surprisingly, Taralo does the same from his side. Our hands link once again, only this time, our positions are reversed, and we don't hesitate to try and hoist her back up to a safer position. Neither one of us is particularly strong on our own, but with everyone helping out, we eventually manage to drag her up a few inches. Though it won't help for long; this thing's just going to keep rounding corners until it unseats us all. Gwen seems to be thinking along the same lines, because the moment she's safe (well, saf_er_) she turns her gaze on me, and I can read her thoughts so clearly it's almost as though someone imprinted them onto the surface of her eyes.

_Do whatever you have to, just get us OFF this thing._

Well, it's worth a shot.

"Hey, um, bed?" I shout, still somehow managing to feel embarrassed and ridiculous despite the fact that at any moment we could go plummeting to our deaths. "Mr Bed? Look, could you . . . we want you to go . . . faster."

The effect is instantaneous; it's almost as though the bed was just waiting for the command. As soon as the word "faster" leaves my lips, the thing shoots through the cave so rapidly that I swear I can feel my eyelids peeling off. It must be going even faster than a hovercraft; and now we're all going to die because I just had to ask for more speed. I can even see a light up ahead. This is it; we're dead, we're dead, we're d-

We hurtle through the circle of light and suddenly the bed screeches to a stop, my arms nearly yanking out of their sockets as momentum tries to carry me forwards and off the mattress. But I've gone through too much trouble trying to stay on this thing to be thrown off now; I grit my teeth and tense all the muscles in my arms, effectively keeping myself on. However it almost feels like, in an effort to pull myself towards the bedpost and ultimately stay on the mattress, I'm pulling the bed over with my momentum because the next second, the whole thing tips until it's standing straight in the air, then with a resounding crash falls forwards, burying Gwen, Taralo and I under a lumpy mattress and what few blankets actually managed to stay on. The pillows didn't survive.

"Everyone okay?" I manage to say once I finally get the feeling back in my cheeks, though they're still stinging from bearing the brunt of the wind's force. Slowly I begin to regain control of my limbs, wincing and stretching them out of their cramped, tense positions to try and help me crawl out from under the mattress. From the similar sounds of grunts and groans next to me, I guess that my allies are doing the same; though I could just be imagining the sound. I'm still hearing this giant ringing noise in my ears, and I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be there.

"Are we dead?" Taralo's hoarse whisper is barely audible as he slowly pokes his head out from under a sheet, which is unsurprisingly not as white as his face.

"Don't know," I say, managing to get everything from my stomach up out from under the mattress before collapsing with exhaustion. "Don't care. Think I'm going to throw up now."

Taralo seems to be too scared to feel sick, but as Gwen wriggles her way out from the overturned bed I can see she's looking rather green as well, and she mutters something about a stupid plan before crawling off with shaking arms. I just stay where I am, looking up at the green trees, sunlight shining through the leaves and part of me registers that we're outside of the cave; we _made_ it. But most of me's just trying not to think at all. And certainly never remember those past events. _Ever_ again.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

_SNAP!_

I shoot up from my sleeping place, only to be reminded a minute later of why I was lying down as huge waves of pain roll through my midsection. Wrapping an arm around my mouth, I try not to let a sound escape as shoots of agony echo up from my broken rib. Or ribs. I know there's at least one that's been completely snapped, but from the pain and the size of the bruise that's formed across my stomach, I'm guessing that more have been at the very least hurt. Still, whatever the total tally of my injuries, I have to try and ignore them for now. Because I know that snapping sound, and I've been waiting to hear it go off ever since I made my weak attempt at a defense system for my current hiding place.

Even in my pain-filled state after the events of the dragon, I couldn't leave myself unprotected. According to the girl from Two I was to be "saved for later," and I _really _did not like the sound of that. In hindsight, I'd been so bleary from my wound that the trap had been poorly-made and completely unconcealed. Nobody would be stupid enough to stumble into it.

But somebody just had.

_Probably some sort of animal, _I tell myself, but still, I reach an arm up to grab a low-hanging tree branch above me and, gritting my teeth at the inevitable, try to hoist myself up.

Immediately I regret my decision as searing agony races through me and I end up letting go of the tree branch and rolling over, face-down in the dirt and try to contain the scream building inside my throat. Sweat forms on my forehead, beading and beginning to trail down my face, mingling with clumps of dirt and a few salty tears I can't manage to repress. But somehow, I manage to get to all fours, panting and gasping like I just ran a marathon after being attacked by a pack of bears, but slightly higher off the ground. I can do this.

It takes me an achingly long time to finally get standing, and even longer to start managing to move my feet. The pain is constant now, an ever-present dagger stabbing me in the ribs and every step I take makes my vision go dangerously dark, but somehow I find the perseverance to keep moving towards my trap. Best case scenario, it's one of the Careers; Meredith, preferably. Worst, it's an animal, or the trap might even be empty. In which case I would have suffered through all this for nothing.

But the arena has a sadistic way of taking your idea of a worst case scenario and making it look like a walk in the park compared to reality. Because once I reach my trap, even in my bleary, pain-filled state, I can see that what I caught is not an animal. Or a Career. It's another tribute: the girl from Twelve. And the triangular, sharp rock I'd been lucky enough to find and use, the rock that was supposed to deliver the killing blow to its victim, hasn't hit her directly in the heart. She's still alive.

I almost manage to forget the pain as I stumble towards her, feeling like I'm in some sort of fog, maybe a horrible nightmare I'll wake up from any moment. _No. No, no, no, no. _I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't mean to . . . to . . . to what? Kill someone? What was the reason I set the trap up, other than to knock off some of the competition? But only the ones who were just- just . . . _bad_. Meredith _killed_ Devera, the rest of the Careers have destroyed tributes lives as well. Doesn't that justify it?

No, no it doesn't; not when an innocent young girl accidentally stumbled into it and got hurt. Funny thing about traps, when you set them up you don't feel like you're doing anything wrong, because you won't be directly causing the death of a person at the time. It's only when you see what your creation has destroyed that you realise how awful it was in the first place.

I fall to my knees beside the girl from Twelve, Malia, I think, and just stare, at the blood, at the sweat and the tears. Oh, God; _I_ caused this. This isn't . . . this wasn't . . .

Suddenly, her eyes shoot open, revealing a flash of vibrant blue and she gasps in pain, gaze darting around the arena, unseeing. Until it lands on me.

"N-N . . . Noah?" she chokes out, her voice strained and hoarse. I freeze, staring down at her and knowing that what she's seeing is entirely different from what stands before her. There's no doubt in my mind who she's talking about; her tortured screams as she watched her district partner be burned alive by the dragon were a mixture of animalistic cries and one word, a name, repeated over and over.

"Noah?" she whispers again, and one hand slowly lifts to curl around my own. I flinch in surprise, knowing that I should get out of here and run; I have no right to stay and witness this girl's final, painful moments when I'm the reason she's going through them in the first place.

"Noah," she repeats one more time, her fingers tightening slightly around mine. "I-I'm scared."

My mouth has gone completely dry and I'm positive the entire arena has gone silent, watching and waiting with baited breath. For a moment, I get the overwhelming urge to shield Malia's body, hide it from the cameras I know must be zooming in on us right now. Yes, I have no right to be here, no right at all to watch this; but neither does the Capitol.

I'm so caught up in feelings of terror, mostly aimed at myself, that it takes another repetition of her district partner's name for me to look back at Malia and see the fear in her eyes. She looks like a small, scared child, one seeking comfort in the absolute most wrong person for the job. _You have no right, _I tell myself again, but then I realise; who else does? Her ally's dead, her friends and family are far away back home; I'm the only one here. And I can't just . . . leave her alone.

"I-It'll be alright," I say, though my throat's closed up so much I'm not sure any of the words got out. Malia seems to understand though, and nods slightly before grimacing in pain. "It hurts," she whispers, sounding so small, so innocent. So undeserving of death.

"I know. But it . . . it'll all be over soon." Hesitantly, I reach out a hand and brush some of the hair out of her face, clearing the view for her slowly dimming eyes. She relaxes and almost smiles up at me, making my stomach twist sickeningly, my heart pounding out a two-worded rhythm: _My fault, my fault, my fault._

"Is it . . . scary? To die? I don't- I don't what happens; Noah, I don't think I'm ready, I can't do this, I want to see my mother and my father and-"

"Shh, shh," I whisper, trying to mimic the reassuring noises my mother used to make when I was sick. "It'll be fine. Just . . . trust me." Yes, trust me, your killer, the reason you're going through this right now. I used to laugh at irony. Now I don't think I'm ever going to laugh again.

She nods slowly, the tears that leaked from her eyes at her earlier words still glistening on her face, each one that forms feeling like a dagger stabbing me repeatedly in the heart. "Y-you'll be there, right? To help me?"

For a second, I forget who she thinks she's talking to and I want to blurt out that of course I can't, that I won't be following her, that I still belong in the land of the living. Because right now, a selfish, selfish part of me isn't thinking about Malia; it's thinking about me, worrying what my death might be like, fretting over if I'll be ready and if there'll be anyone there to hold my hand and pretend to be my already-dead district partner and try and ease my way into death. Though I can't imagine there ever being an easy way to die.

I swallow hard, inside of my throat feeling like a sun-scorched desert; all the moisture in my body seems to have been put into my eyes, which are now allowing tears to drip from them openly. But I push all that aside and respond, "Always."

She smiles then, a small, but real smile and says something I don't manage to catch – might even have been a word from a different language – before her body contracts in one final spasm of pain. Then everything relaxes and the fingers wrapped around my hand slip away, leaving me with nothing but the sound of a cannon echoing through my head. Because everything else feels empty.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

I don't know when I started doing this, but a little while ago, in the back of my mind, I started comparing my allies to animals, using their distinctive character traits to analyse and place them in a category. I always saw Meredith as a cat, one of those dangerous, sadistic ones that hid behind sheathed claws and a superior attitude. Now though, as a cannon booms loud and clear throughout the arena, her movements are almost canine, the way her head shoots up and a small snarl forms on her lips, though the gesture disappears almost instantly; it represents a lack of control, something I know Meredith craves with every fibre of her being. This would also be the reason why the sound of the blast would bother her; she can't dictate who dies when, can't master every element in this arena, and it's like a thorn in her side. Another tribute has died, not by her hands, and with the Games so far in now, this fact might cause something in her to snap, something that can't bear to give up the reins of control to someone else. And having that something break doesn't bode well for the alliance at all. Still, I try to push down my fear and hurriedly look away from my ally, so as to hide the look on my face that says I know what she's thinking. Even with the worry, though, my logical brain still whirs into action, revealing to me two possible outcomes of this event:

One: The tribute killed was murdered by one of our allies (Rowan or Perrin, I'd guess, since it's completely implausible for Code and Rhine to meet another tribute back at the tower), and things won't be as bad as I thought. Sure, the kill wouldn't be counted as Meredith's alone, but a murder for one Career is a murder for the Pack, a sign that we're advancing as a group, and that's alright. Not what she'd prefer, but much, much better than the alternative.

And now for that alternative:

The tribute could have been killed by someone else, fallen victim to a Gamemaker trap or maybe just died of a sickness or poisoning from choosing the wrong food to eat. Whatever the case, said kill could not, in any way, be attributed to the Careers, and thus won't be counted as such. Which will make Meredith angry. We're nearly down to half the number of tributes we originally started with, and our female Career leader has only had two kills, both of which were made a week ago in the bloodbath. It's not enough, not by a long-shot, to meet the standards she's set for herself. And that's going to cause something I was hoping would hold off for just a little longer.

The downfall of the Careers.

It looks like I'll have to set my plan into motion, ready . . . or not.

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><p><em><strong>Man, you should have seen my story plan for this chapter. I have my Games plan laid out, descriptions of what goes on in every chapter listed, and for this one it was like: Dylian vs Hair; Lore, Gwen and Taralo vs Bed. Felt pretty ridiculous :)<strong>_

_**Anyways, if you have yet to vote on the poll posted on my profile, I suggest you do so quickly as I'm taking it down in a few chapters. Partly because most people voted when a lot more characters were still alive, so I have to make a newly updated poll so you can all revote, but also because I'm going to be putting up a very quick, there-for-a-day-or-two-only poll first. I'll let you all know when it's up, and you'll see why it'll be there for such a short time :)**_

_**Oh, and one more quick word on the poll: I've had a lot of people review to ask me who's dead in the Games. Now, I don't mind letting you know, but a quick and easy way you can find out is by checking the poll on my profile. Everyone living is on the poll; if a character isn't there, they're dead. As soon as I post a chapter with deaths (like this one), I immediately take the character's name off the poll. So, when it doubt, check the poll! Solves all your problems :)**_


	40. Ready or Not

_**Man, I feel like I'm really cheating you guys with this chapter. Originally there was supposed to be a whole lot of action, but putting it all in would have resulted in a mega, 20 000 word chapter, and putting only half of it in would have resulted in a really terrible cliff-hanger. So this is a bit of a set-up chapter for things to come. Really, really sorry about that, and if this story seems like it's slow and nothing's happening. I have a horrible tendancy to ramble, and I've been doing a lot of that in this story, which results in not much of anything happening. But I'll try to be better now :) Sorry for the terribly long wait and quality of this chapter, hope you can enjoy anyways though!**_

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><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

I sprint through the forest at top speeds, flying past bushes and branches without even noticing; there isn't a particular need to run at such a quick pace, but just as I used to use training as an outlet for pent up anger and frustration back home, I now try to get out the tension by racing back to our home base as fast as possible.

"_You'd have to be an idiot to stick around any longer."_

I grit my teeth as the words ring through my head, but part of me wonders if the reason I'm so bothered by them is because it's _true_. Like an age-worn vase, cracks are beginning to appear in the Pack, a never-stable alliance in the first place. The tiniest event gone wrong could set off a domino effect that would eventually result in the destruction of us all. And I have a feeling that the tenth cannon going off might just be that event.

"_Obviously I could see that you and the little nerd from Eight were up to something; weren't being particularly subtle about it, were you?"_

Even running can't help the emotions bubbling up inside of me and in irritation I lash out at an overhanging branch. It shudders and cracks, falling to the ground as I blaze past it, still thinking everything through in my mind. Yes, Janaff and I have a plan; but if such a plan was evident to someone like Rowan, would the others have picked up on it? I want to answer no; Janaff and I are both smart, we know how to hide secrets. The only reason Rowan noticed was because he was probably doing the same thing, trying to figure out a strategy of his own and keeping watch for similar conspiracies amongst the rest of our allies. It's a perfectly reasonable answer.

But our other Career leader can be anything but reasonable.

I burst through the latest copse of trees and find myself back in the small clearing that surrounds the tower, the closest rope dancing slightly in the breeze, as though beckoning me towards it. But despite my onrush of speed in the forest, I finally come to a complete stop, hesitating before the giant stone cylinder. Is this really the best option?

"_The way I see it, you have two choices. You could be stupid, and go back. Or you could be a coward and run away."_

"_So you're taking the cowardly approach, then?"_

"_Me? Oh no, I'm not leaving out of fear. I just have unfinished business to attend to elsewhere."_

I grit my teeth and without further pause, grab the rope between my hands and begin to haul myself up. All this worry could potentially be for nothing; if the latest cannon was fired for a tribute who died by Meredith's hand, then she'll be satisfied and there won't be anything to get worked up over. But even as I think it, part of me still knows that even the joy from killing will only tide her over for a short while. I'm finally beginning to accept a fact I sort of knew deep down all along; my district partner won't rest until she's wiped out everyone in the arena. And, allies or not, us Careers stand in her way, by being alive and by being around to steal kills from her. Having her in the Pack, especially as a leader, was an arrangement that could not last long, and now it's time for it to come to an end.

I don't really have a goal in mind as I scale the tower, part of me wondering if I should just grab some supplies and leave while I can, though I know I'd never be able to do that. I'd be marked as a target right away, and that's not something I can afford to be labelled as if I want to get back home to my family. Fact is, I'm starting to wonder if the only way to win these Games is to take out the one person who impedes me from leaving the Pack.

However all thoughts of sneaking away or potentially setting our trap into action vanish when I finally reach the top of the tower and, to my surprise, find Code and Rhine present. What's even more surprising though is the fact that they're sitting close together and talking in low, hushed tones, and despite all their previous animosity, neither one seems to be throwing an insult at the other.

"What're you two doing here?"

The pair jump immediately at the sound of my voice and whirl around, but something flashes in their eyes as soon as they see that it's just me. Relief? "Meredith sent us back," Code says, which earns a deep scowl from Rhine at the memory. "She, uh, said we couldn't keep up."

My eyes are still narrowed though as they flit from one 17 year-old to the other, searching for some sort of hint as to what they're hiding – I can believe the part about Meredith sending them back, with Rhine's broken leg it was bound to happen at some point – but there's something more to what happened, I'm sure of it.

Rhine seems to notice my suspicious gaze because she mimics it and asks, "Where's Rowan?"

"Out," I say swiftly. "What were you two talking about?"

"Out like on a merry little jaunt through the woods?" Rhine counters. "Or out like being taken out?"

My gaze hardens but I try to stay calm, not show any sort of emotion that might give me away. It looks like we all have things to hide today.

"Taken out? Like on a date?" Rhine and I both turn to Code, who's frowning from one of us to the other.

"Yes, Code, that's exactly it. Because we all know that when you "take someone out" in the arena, the two of you are just running off to have a nice, romantic get-together," Rhine says scathingly; apparently whatever happened still wasn't quite drastic enough for them to get past their differences.

It barely takes a second before his eyes widen in shock, now focused solely on me. "The cannon . . ." he splutters, taking an involuntary step back. "You . . ."

"No," I say, trying to put my hands up in a reassuring gesture, which can be a bit hard when you're holding a deadly trident. "No," I repeat again, looking at Rhine this time and watching for any sign that might show she believes me.

She frowns and crosses her arms. No such luck. "And we should believe you because . . .?"

I toss my trident onto the ground in front of them. "No blood." She opens her mouth to respond but I quickly continue, spreading my arms wide. "And I'm not injured."

She snorts. "Doesn't mean anything. You could have taken him by surprise."

"Taken _Rowan_ by surprise?"

"Plus you're a trained Career. He's from Seven."

"But he'd be good enough to land a few hits," I finish, looking from her to her district partner. Code seems to be relaxing slightly, hopefully hearing the truth in my words, but Rhine still looks skeptical. "Trust me, I didn't kill him."

She's still frowning, staring at me with cold, green eyes, but I swear I see some of the disbelief recede in her gaze. "So want to talk about where he went?"

"Want to talk about what happened up here?"

She scowls. "Nothing happened up here."

"I beg to differ."

I meet her glare steadily with an analytical gaze of my own and, in the end, she looks away and instead her eyes find her district partner's, both of them sharing a look. Yes, something definitely happened while I was gone; something bad or embarrassing enough that they don't want to risk telling me. I look around our little base camp, trying to find anything out of place or unusual which might give them away but nothing strikes me as odd. I personally couldn't care less what happened – from the sound of it they honestly thought I'd killed Rowan, which meant they couldn't have known whose cannon was fired, so no one died up here. Therefore, it was nothing hugely drastic – just so long as they've hidden their evidence. My district partner might not be so lenient.

_Speak of the devil, _I think as, looking past Code and Rhine, I watch two figures emerge from the forest on the opposite side of the tower from where I came, one walking with a purposeful stride that could only belong to Meredith. I try not to let any emotions show, though I'm still not entirely sure what emotions _would _show at the appearance of my district partner, but something must have changed in my expression because a moment later Code and Rhine turn to see the approaching pair as well, worry coating the former's face while the latter just glares. "So we all agree to a pact of silence then?" Code asks nervously. Apparently I'm not the only one who's picked up on the fact that divulging the wrong information to Meredith could have very, very bad consequences. "No one mention anything about whatever happened to anyone and maybe we'll be . . ." But he peters off, blood draining from his face as he watches the two figures stop on their way to the tower, Meredith bending over to grab something lying in the grass before looking back up towards us. "My knife," Code whispers to himself, watching in horror as our other allies resume their walk to the tower, Meredith nearly jogging in anticipation to get here. "Oh no; oh no, no, no, no . . ."

"What's your knife doing down there?" I ask, watching as the two disappear from view under the tower, the ropes nearby going taut with the added weight of our allies.

"Nothing," Rhine answers sharply for Code; whatever's going on, she doesn't seem to be nearly as worried. But whatever went on up here, they're not going to be able to hide it from Meredith much longer; she has a way of getting the truth out of people. And most of the time, she won't react well to that truth.

The three of us wait with varying levels of apprehension for our other allies to reach the top, and I unconsciously kneel and wrap my hand around the discarded trident; just in case. Rhine notices and shoots me a suspicious glare, but I ignore it, my mind whirling with the outcomes of our next encounter with Meredith. Never someone I thought of as particularly stable in the first place, but when you combine that with the fact that none of us have killed since the first night (unless the tribute that just died was killed by Meredith or Janaff. One can always hope), we've lost our one member who seemed to keep us all together, Rowan's now gone and something happened up here at our own base that Code and Rhine are too embarrassed or worried to talk about, well, you get one angry District 4 female. An angry District 4 female who might finally just snap.

"_What_ is this?" My co-leader wastes no time in getting straight to the point as she pulls herself up and onto the stone tower, making the climb seem almost effortless. She's still trying to keep a calm and collected demeanour, but I can see the cracks beginning to form, the small light of insanity that seems to have blossomed in her eyes. Which means she neither she nor Janaff killed the tribute whose cannon was fired – if they had, I'm sure the joy would have been evident in Meredith's expression. Subconsciously, my grip tightens on the trident still held loosely at my side as I watch my District 8 ally coming up the rope behind Meredith. Behind his glasses, green eyes dart back and forth from one Career to another, taking in Code's worried expression and Rhine's scowling one, Rowan's absence and Meredith's barely controlled anger as she strides over to the pair from Two, whipping the knife out from her belt and practically shoving it in their faces. And then his analytical gaze lands on me and I give a barely perceptible nod, communicating something the both of us have already guessed.

_It's nearly time._

"I-I . . . I don't . . ." The two of us look away from each other and turn back to our other allies, Code's stammering immediately marking him as guilty of something. "It was . . ."

"Was there a tribute?" Meredith hisses, her tone swiftly becoming dangerous. "Was there a person down there who you just thought you'd throw a few knives at, and not bother to go down and chase them?"

Code can't seem to respond, his mouth just moving soundlessly while he stares with wide eyes at our furious Career leader, and a part of me wonders whether that's actually what happened – the way he reacts is so similar to how my siblings and I would look when we were younger, and our parents had just guessed exactly what we were up to. Meredith seems convinced that she speaks the truth, anyways, and by the way her fingers tighten around the knife in her hand, I can tell she won't bother waiting for a confirmation. Each one of our allies notices the motion and Janaff shoots me a frantic, warning look, knowing that it's beginning, knowing that only I have the potential to rein Meredith in and stop her from doing something unspeakable. I step forward, mouth opening and preparing to do just that, when Rhine beats me to it.

"Oh, for goodness sake, it probably just fell while we were coming back up here without him noticing." She rolls her eyes, but it's unclear whether she's directing the gesture towards Meredith or her district partner. "You know how much of an idiot Code is."

For a moment, the dark-haired boy looks like he's going to respond with some sort of an indignant comment to the insult, but whatever protest he's about to say dies in his throat as he gasps, going completely still. Meredith, still glaring at Rhine, has taken the weapon and is sliding it slowly into the belt loop where Code usually leaves it, the tip of the dagger a hair's breadth from his leg; if he so much as flinches, the knife'll plunge deeply into his thigh. "I don't know," Meredith says, never taking her eyes off of Rhine, who's doing a pretty good job of meeting the other Career's glare. "It seems pretty secure." She jerks the knife around in its hold for effect, and Code inhales sharply as it grazes his leg, cutting into the black material of his pants and drawing a thin line of crimson that slowly begins to blossom into a thicker clot of blood.

"Meredith," I warn, stepping forwards and raising my trident ever so slightly. I don't want to make it seem like a threat, which would only escalate the situation, but at the same time I have to make this stop _now_. As much as my brain knows this is it, I'm still hoping we can keep this situation under control, until we're ready for the Careers to break up. Until our plans are complete.

My tone of voice and the slight movement of my weapon aren't lost on her, but she chooses not to acknowledge them yet; instead, she stands and turns away from the District 2 pair (to their collective relief), giving me an extremely forced smile that I've learned long ago not to trust. "Oh, calm down Perrin, I'm just having a bit of fun. And I'd suggest you drop the weapon too; unless you're sure you can take me." A menacing smirk creeps back onto her face, giving me proof that whatever crazed thoughts whirring around in her head aren't gone, not by a long shot. It's really starting to look like we're going to have to face the inevitable. Now.

I let the trident hang loose in my grip, dangling casually by my side, but make no further move to put it down. Meredith notices this act of defiance at her "suggestion" and for the slightest second her lips twist unpleasantly into a vicious snarl. And though it disappears nearly as quickly as it came, as though someone drew the curtain of control over a window of madness, I know that the light of insanity will shine through again. Especially as my district partner's cold eyes narrow, finally dismissing Code and Rhine (for now, at least) and focusing on another one of our allies, one who's distinctly _not_ present. "Where's Rowan."

She quickly looks to me for an answer and there's a sudden clash of sea green and ice blue as our gazes lock, stares so intense it's almost as though a miniature war is being waged between us in the moments it takes me to think up a suitable response. But really, there _is_ no suitable response; anything I say will only make things worse. "Not here," I say, trying to stall while my brain spins madly, trying to come up with something, _anything_ to say.

I was expecting Meredith to respond with some sort of snarky, sarcastic comment, or insult, something I could make a small, harmless argument out of in an effort to stall for time. But it seems that, in light of recent events in the arena, she's lost the urge to waste time and play mind games with each other. "The cannon," she says, repeating Code's exact words from before; though not at all in the same stuttering, shocked tone. No, her words are sharp, harsh and leave no room for argument. But I have to try anyways.

"No," I say quickly, knowing that, as much as Rowan gets on Meredith's nerves and she casually threw insults and death threats towards him every other minute, killing him would be a direct display of disobedience and disrespect towards her, as she was the one who brought him into the alliance. And I realise now that my role in these Games, never an outright murderer to begin with, has now transitioned to my being an acrobat of sorts. Yes, I'm now a tightrope-walker, teetering along the razor-thin line between peace and teamwork, and madness and destruction. All of us Careers walk this line, and none of us have the power to leave easily anymore. Not after Rowan jumped off and took our safety net with him.

Meredith's eyes narrow further until they're almost snake-like, only the thinnest hint of blue shining out from under suspicion-ridden lids. "So where is he?"

_The cannon fires and both our heads shoot up immediately, hands tightening around respective weapons even though we know the sound doesn't mean danger; if anything, it means a reduction in the risks of the arena. Another opponent, another would-be killer (or maybe someone who's already killed) is gone. But the event does nothing to ease my growing nerves; Janaff and I are both aware that us Careers are better off without the sounds of cannons being fired, unless it's directly due to the actions of one of our allies. Which I can only hope it is._

"_Well," Rowan says in a false-cheery voice, turning to face me with a smile on his face and a malicious glint in his eyes, causing me to rethink lowering my weapon for now. "That's my signal."_

"_Signal for what?" I ask, my gaze darting between his face and the knife in his hands, already mentally preparing myself for the potential of a battle breaking out. Something has leaked into the air, some sort of tension brought on by the one cannon boom that seems to have changed the entire way the Games work in its two seconds of existence; I'm still figuring out what that means for me._

"_The signal for my departure, of course," Rowan answers, still wearing the casually cheerful façade. I knew he could act well from watching him closely during the interviews, but I haven't seen him make that much of an attempt to hide his true intentions and emotions since. It gives me a bad feeling; he must have been preparing for this._

_His answer catches me off-guard though, but I force myself to remain impassive; confusion, the kind that could throw me off, is exactly what he wants to see. But I'll play along, for now. "Your departure?"_

"_From the Careers," he says, and I notice the slight tightening of his fingers on the handle of his cleaver-like weapon, causing me to mimic him as I solidify the hold on my trident. "Come on, you knew it wouldn't last long, didn't you?"_

_This time I don't entirely succeed at hiding my astonishment, and he laughs at my reaction. "Yeah, you did. Of course; you've talked to Janaff. And if anyone could have seen this coming, it'd be him. Little co-conspirators, the two of you." He pauses, throwing a smirk my way as though expecting me to respond, to renounce or deny his claims, but I stay completely silent, refusing to let the truth show in my eyes. "Obviously I could see that you and the little nerd from Eight were up to something; weren't being particularly subtle about it, were you?"_

"_What's your point?" I say, cutting him off before he can continue. He raises an eyebrow, his turn to be surprised as I don't bother contradicting him. I'm not necessarily admitting to the fact that Janaff and I had talked privately and had been secretly coming up with a plan in the case where everything went according to his morbid yet extremely plausible predictions._

"_My point is that I'm getting out before you choose to unleash your little project," Rowan continued, evil grin plastered back on his face. "It's not that I have anything against the two of you, really; in fact, I admire the way you so underhandedly went behind your district partner's back, mercilessly plotting her demise." Another pause, another attempt to get a rise out of me; I keep my face as emotionless as stone. "Anyways, bravo for being more ruthless than I thought possible of a softie like you and all that, but I really must be going now."_

_He takes a step backwards, half-turning around, but in an instant I'm beside him, trident angled straight towards his chest. "I don't think so."_

_Rowan doesn't even flinch; he probably anticipated this sort of reaction. But strangely, in a fit of purely un-Rowan-like behaviour, he doesn't make a move to raise his knife either. "Come on, now," he says, still seeming determined to talk his way out of this. "Think about it; you KNOW the Pack is coming to an end. You'd have to be an idiot to stick around any longer." He looks pointedly at me, another smirk playing on his lips, to which I respond by moving the trident forwards, razor-sharp points merely a few inches from his chest. "Now, I know myself, and I think I know you to. We both have a common goal in mind: self-preservation. Fighting you would only waste my time and probably injure me. Same goes for you."_

"_I could do a lot more than injure you," I warn, trident still hovering relatively near his heart. I'm not big on threatening people as a rule, but with people like Rowan, there's sometimes no other way to make them listen._

"_I really don't know if you could," Rowan says, looking casually around the forest as though completely unaware of the dangerous weapon poised and ready to end his life in a heartbeat. "I'd use the woods to my advantage and having spent 18 years growing up in Seven, that would definitely tip the odds in my favour." He grins. "You'd be like a fish out of water."_

_Without warning, his good arm spins around, palm delivering a decent blow to my elbow and, more importantly, knocking the trident from my hand so it no longer holds its threatening position near his heart. I'm not a Career for nothing though, and despite being thrown off-balance I quickly throw a kick straight into his stomach. He grimaces but doesn't hesitate to wrap his fingers around my ankle, trying to knock me to the ground. Too bad it'd take the power of more than just one hand; I wrench my foot from his grasp and, keeping my leg in the air, deliver another effective kick right to his chin. He stumbles back and I take the opportunity to grab my trident from the ground, whirling back around to face what I'm sure is going to be a very angry Rowan lunging forwards to attack me, meat cleaver raised. But instead I'm surprised with the sight of Rowan leaning nonchalantly against a tree about ten feet away from me, knife still held at his side."I told you I don't want to fight you," he says casually. "It's a waste of both our time. Besides, I could tell you never really wanted me as part of the Pack in the first place." He smirks. "Why all the sudden effort to keep us together?"_

"_That's not how things work," I say gruffly, but truth be told, his words rattle me slightly. Why am I trying so hard to keep him as part of the Pack? I always guessed that having him in the alliance would end with those knives he's so fond of being plunged into our backs. And now he's offering to just walk away; this might be as good a deal as I could ever get from Rowan. Don't be stupid, I scold myself sharply. You know the reason he can't leave. It'll_

"_. . . set Meredith off," Rowan says, almost as though he read my mind. "Yes, I'm fully aware of that. Good thing I won't be around when she gets angry."_

"_She'll hunt you down," I counter. "She wouldn't let you just walk away."_

"_Ah, but see, I don't have to worry about that. You and Janaff with solve my problem there." He grins and I get a sinking feeling that our District 7 ally has been more perceptive than we gave him credit for. "Whatever plan you've been working on will be set into motion as soon as Meredith shows signs of reaching him breaking point. Mind you, there's always the possibility that she could kill you before you got to her." Rowan shrugs. "But I'll be long gone by then, safe and sound."_

"_I don't think so."_

"_No, I'm pretty sure that's how it'll work," Rowan says, letting his gaze wander but still keeping me in sight out of the corner of his eye. "My path is all laid out, and it's pretty foolproof. It's different for you though. The way I see it, you have two choices. You could be stupid, and go back. Or you could be a coward and run away."_

"_So you're taking the cowardly approach, then?"_

"_Me? Oh no, I'm not leaving out of fear. I just have unfinished business to attend to elsewhere." He grins, raising his knife and staring into it; I cautiously lift my own weapon, but I have a feeling that the fight between Rowan and I has gone out of this situation. "Yes, I'll catch up to her soon," he mumbles to himself before looking back up at my widened eyes and smirking. "But I can't do it while being dragged down by the weight of you and the others. So I'm leaving; peacefully. You should be glad." He turns around slowly to face the forest, not even bothering to look back at me as he shouts, "Follow me if you want! But I can guarantee that I'll be putting up much more of a fight next time. Yes, you'll probably still manage to overpower and kill me. But what will you tell Meredith then?"_

_He had me; there's absolutely nothing I could do. If I go after him and kill him, Meredith would crack anyways; because I undermined her rule and killed the ally she first inducted into the alliance, and also because I think she was somewhat looking forwards to filling Rowan when the time came as well. So I just stand there and watch as my ex-ally disappears into the forest, completely powerless to stop anything that happens as a consequence._

"Where. Is. He?" Meredith repeats dangerously.

I could go back go back on my earlier words and say that I killed him, make up some lie about his actions putting us all in danger, or maybe he went insane and I had to do something to stop him. Of course, this story would be disproved very quickly, as tonight when the anthem played, Rowan's face would be distinctly lacking in the night sky.

I could say that I left him to hunt on his own, that he was adamant we split up to find more tributes. Though this would immediately show an idiocy on my part as Meredith and I agreed the first night after Rowan tried leaving that we'd never let him out of our sight.

Or I could tell her the truth, and face all the consequences that come with it.

Yeah, right. I still have hope that this mess can be resolved yet. At least until Janaff and I are ready to act.

"It was some sort of Gamemaker trap," I say, lying effortlessly. "Lots of smoke, a horrible smell. We almost thought the dragon was back," I continue, noticing the slight shudders from Code at the name of the mutt, the nervous frown from Janaff and the hardened glare from Rhine. "We got separated in the chaos. Who knows, maybe the cannon _was_ his. Most likely he's just somewhere in the forest. He'll come back."

"_Really_? You _honestly_ believe that?" Meredith throws me a disparaging look, but it does nothing to make me feel bad; on the contrary, I almost feel as though a huge weight is being lifted off of my shoulders. She believes the lie; or at least, she feels like she has bigger things to worry about at the moment and won't bother questioning it for now. The latter becomes evident as she turns back to Code and Rhine almost immediately, condescension hardening once more into a vicious glare. The danger has far from vanished; the only reason I'm safe is because she might still feel the smallest amount of trust in me, never suspect me of lying and going behind her back as she always considered me to be a "weak link."

Hopefully she'll never get the chance to re-label me.

"So, one problem solved, but another still left open," Meredith says slowly as her eyes find the pair from Two once more. "Kind of like a gaping wound, if you will." She pauses for effect, waiting to judge their reactions, but considering how nervous Code had already been looking and how determined Rhine was not to show emotion, not much changes in their expressions now. "What happened here?"

"I was practicing my aim," Code blurts out suddenly. "There were some birds flying by and I wanted to prove I had great aim so I tried to . . ." he peters off slowly, aware that everyone's watching him intently. Whether he knows it or not, his excuse could very well decide the fate of the Careers; we're on extremely dangerous ground now. Anything spoken aloud can be misinterpreted and lead to our destruction. "Hit a few," Code finishes quietly.

"And you just decided to leave your knife on the ground where anyone could pick it up?" Meredith asks, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"We got distracted," Rhine snaps, detracting the attention from her nervous ally. "If you didn't notice, we got a sponsor gift."

_That_ gets everyone's attention. A sponsor gift? Why? We're the Careers, we don't really need anything. I shoot Rhine a warning glance, trying to see if she's making this up; one detectable lie to Meredith and everything could blow up in our faces. But she just gestures snarkily behind her, towards where a large metal box sits closed near the mouth of the Cornucopia. Meredith frowns suspiciously and walks over to it, throwing the lid open and allowing the scent of home-cooked goods to wash over us all. "Food," Meredith says, and I swear I see her lip curl up slightly in disgust. "Why on Earth would we want food?" she adds, rounding on Code and Rhine once more.

"Don't ask us," Rhine says with her customary eye-roll. "It's not like we _asked_ for it."

"Gifts aren't sent randomly," Meredith counters as the two lock eyes once again, tension levels rising back up.

"Sure, but who knows what goes on in the minds of those Capitol people," Code says, finally seeming to have recovered from the confrontation regarding the events of this afternoon. "I mean, we could sit here all day trying to figure out their motives." He glances from one girl to the other, looking for any sign that his words might reduce the hostility between the two while Janaff and I do the same. "So, what happened to you guys while hunting?" Code continues brightly, turning his attention to Janaff in an effort to direct the topic of conversation away from himself and Rhine. "Find anyone?"

The boy from Eight almost visibly winces and inside, I do the same. Just as Code and Rhine's accusations against me concerning Rowan showed they had no idea who the cannon belonged to, Meredith's reaction to our District 7 ally's disappearance also indicated pretty obviously that they'd met no one on their hunt. Because if they had, said tribute would be dead. And we wouldn't be having to worry yet about the bonds between the Pack snapping like twigs.

"Not yet," Janaff says, watching Meredith out of the corner of his eye and gauging her reaction to his words. She already tensed visibly at Code's seemingly innocent question; it was a sharp reminder of the pressure weighing down on her to be the best tribute in these Games. "But I'm sure we'll find them soon," he adds, trying to discreetly send his peer a message that he should _stop talking now._

Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to get it. "Did you check the trap?"

The reaction is immediate: Meredith's head shoots upwards as she shoots Code with one of the most murderous glares I've ever seen, before a fake smile grows once more on her face and she turns back to me. It takes my brain a second to register the reason behind this sharp transition; the _trap_. That I shouldn't know about. Right.

It was only a few days ago, back when I was keeping watch over Rowan at the tower and Meredith had taken the four younger members off to hunt. At least, I'd assumed it was to hunt. However I was told differently as soon as the group returned and Janaff and I managed to spare a second for a private conversation. He told me all about Meredith's little trap, and her plans to keep tributes alive so that she could get some sick pleasure out of "playing" with them. At first I was outraged, and had been about to stalk straight up to Meredith and demand what kind of deranged, insane psychoactually _enjoys _that kind of thing, but Janaff had stopped me. He was convinced the trap could be reversed; it would be a place Meredith would feel completely comfortable and at ease with, caught up in torturing another tribute. And it might finally be the place where we could finally catch her by surprise.

The day after the dragon attack, we'd made our move; leaving Rhine and Code to man the tower, Janaff and I had gone off into the forest under the pretense of "hunting." Instead he took me back to the spot Meredith and I found the first night, where she almost lost her life for the first time. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about (and regretted) my decision all those days ago. Things might have been so much simpler if I'd just left Meredith to fall to her doom. But there's no use worrying over that now; I just have to make sure that next time, I make the right decision.

Right now though, I'm supposed to act like I have no idea what the trap is, either the one Meredith created or the one Janaff and I made for her later. "Trap?" I say cautiously, making sure to keep a straight face. "What's this about a trap?"

"It's just a little hole in the ground, Perrin," Meredith says, still hiding behind her false grin. "Nothing to worry ab-."

"A hole in the ground that could contain tributes," I interrupt. All I want to do is steer the conversation away from this subject so as to make sure I won't get caught in a lie, but in reality, if I didn't know about one of Meredith's plans, I'd continue pestering her about it until she told me more. "You didn't okay that with me."

Her eyes narrow. "And I'm supposed to okay my every decision with you? _Co_-leader," she adds, making sure to emphasise the first syllable.

I hold her glare for a second, then break it off. "Fine," I say gruffly, hoping to end this conversation now. No use drawing it out when I could get caught any second; I've always prided myself on being an excellent liar, but where Meredith is concerned, I'm not really sure. However, a glance at Janaff stops me from opening my mouth and quickly changing the subject. He's giving me a pointed look, green eyes working frantically to communicate. And then his message hits me.

_It's time. We need to put the trap into action. And in order to do that, we kind of need to get her to the trap._

He's right; it really is time. I can't deny it anymore. So instead of turning away from Meredith and making some sort of vague comment about the weather or our weapons supply, I look back at her and ask. "Did you check your trap, then?"

For a moment, it looks like she's going to deliver some sort of smirking retort; but the first syllable dies in her throat as she pauses. "No, actually." Then she grins. "Why don't we go check right now? Just the two of us."

"No." I've always liked to think that I'm smarter than the average Career, but Janaff's the only one who really understands his trap. "We'll _all_ go."

"And _why_ exactly would we bother doing that?" Meredith says back, throwing as much derision into her voice as she can.

"You really want to split up again?" I counter, hoping she takes the hint. We split up once, and not only is Rowan gone, but Code and Rhine are hiding something. Any remnants of trust within the alliance have been broken. Not that I care exactly; I'm perfectly fine with leaving Code and Rhine here and just taking Janaff with us to the trap. But it'd be a bit hard to propose that idea to Meredith without her getting suspicious.

She's still glaring at me, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she sees my point. I doubt Meredith was ever the kind of person to trust _anyone_, but now she's doubly cautious. "Fine," she says, echoing my exact words and tone from before. But then, never one to seem like a loser, she recovers and a smirk quickly covers her face. "We'll have a fieldtrip."


	41. Here It Comes

_**IT'S DONE! YES! Oh, finally!**_

_**And once again I'm going to start this chapter off with an apology. Guys, I'm so, so sorry I haven't updated sooner. School's been busy, we're filming a home video, I've been trying to write a novel. It's all insanity right now. But I've finally managed to finish this.**_

_**Major gore warning, by the way, just letting those of you who don't like that kind of thing know in advance.**_

_**Now, enjoy your 15 000 word chapter! Yes, I wish that was an exaggeration. It's not. Sorry :)**_

* * *

><p><strong>Rhine Carson, District 2 Female<strong>

When one hears the word "fieldtrip," one tends to think of the time their school went on an excursion to one of the various mining facilities in the district. Or maybe the time we visited the old, rundown "Victor Museum," owned by District 2's very first Hunger Games victor, Jaris Maquill. What one certainly does _not _think of is going with a group of hardened killers (give or take one nerd from Eight) to check on a fatal-made-safe trap that may or may not contain tributes for our co-leader to torture/play with. Fieldtrip; woohoo.

_Clink! Clink! Clink!_

"Oh, for God's sake, _stop that_!" I hiss loudly to Code, who's been fingering his stupid dream catcher token ever since we started on our long trek to Meredith's trap. The irritating noise of the shells banging together is _really _starting to get on my nerves.

He glances over at me, surprise etched all over his features instead of the usual hurt and anger, something that catches me off guard. What, did he think that just because we had an actual conversation earlier that didn't end with the two of us nearly throwing punches now we're suddenly "friends?" Ha, yeah right. Friends are the absolute last thing I want or need, _especially_ in the arena. Friends could betray you. Friends could walk out on you. Or, God forbid, friends could actually be nice to you and constantly cheerful, and start to make you feel bad when they're sad. And then friends would go and be heroic and save your life and get killed in the process, leaving you with this endless pit of pain that seems to be located somewhere near your heart . . .

I shake my head furiously, willing the image of a certain brown-haired, green-eyed tribute floating before me to disappear. This can't keep happening; the memories of that day, hearing her voice echo through my head, my constant attempts to tell myself that I don't really care. I'm losing my mind.

"_I wouldn't shoot a friend. I never would."_

"_You consider me a friend?"_

"Stop it," I mutter harshly, gritting my teeth and trying to drown out the sound of my old ally's voice with the grating noise. I need something to distract me from my thoughts; otherwise I'm going to go insane.

"Sorry, but I'm a _little _nervous here." I frown as a new voice enters my ears, one that's definitely _not_ inside my head. Slowly, I turn my head to see Code staring at me with a mixture of annoyance and fear in his eyes. It seems he thinks my latest comment was also directed to him. "I mean, we came _this _close to being killed up there."

"No we didn't," I say with perhaps a bit too much snarkiness in my voice. What can I say, the chance to spend my time arguing and insulting Code is much preferable to being left alone with my own thoughts, and I've jumped on the opportunity much like a drowning man would a lifeboat. "Don't be so dramatic."

"_Dramatic_?" he whispers in disbelief. "Dramatic? She nearly sliced my leg off!"

I don't deign this with a response, merely rolling my eyes in an utterly derisive way, but I do manage to catch sight of the ripped fabric where his own knife cut into him, the fraying threads matted with blood. Considering the level of craziness I believe our co-leader to have achieved, it was nothing, but who knows; if Perrin hadn't stepped in, the problem _could _potentially have escalated. Still, not like I'm going to tell Code that. "Oh, come on, you're supposed to be a trained Career, for goodness sake. If you can't handle a little scratch like that, you might as well just lie down and die now, 'cause you are _not _going to be winning the Games with a pain tolerance like . . ."

"Shut up," Code snaps sharply, though I have a feeling the edge in his voice is more due to fear of our other female ally than anger at me. "You know she's going crazy. We have to do something! Tell Perrin, or-"

"Perrin already knows, idiot," I say, allowing my eyes to wander further forward, where said tribute and the District 8 wimp our also having a quick, whispered conversation; luckily Meredith is even farther ahead, forging the way to her trap and thankfully not paying attention to what's going on behind her back. "We _all_ knew, back at the tower, and you were the last one to catch on. Honestly, do you have to work at being so stupid, or does it just come naturally to you?"

As though from far away, I watch the three up ahead stop as we reach the trap, and Meredith's curt statement that no one was caught in it reaches my ears. Perrin tells her that maybe we should look around for tributes nearby, and he and Janaff slowly make their way off to one side of the forest, eyes on our crazy leader to see if she reacts. But all she does is just stay frozen, staring at the trap with an emotionless, nearly dead expression that's actually more disturbing than if she'd just started yelling or cursing or slashing at things with her axe and her whip. However none of this really registers in my mind, because all I hear are Code's words ringing through my head. "You know, you can drop the act. I know you're just taking out all your frustration and anger out on me to try and keep from feeling hurt at the fact that Cordelia's gone. Just admit you cared already."

Mother always said I never thought before I acted, and Lura warned me that this same trait would be my downfall in the Games. However, at this current moment, I don't even think twice before spinning around and throwing the hardest punch I can right into the jaw of my district partner.

He cries out at the impact and a disgusting _crack!_ rents the air as he falls to the ground. But I couldn't care less; I'm too wrapped up in my fury at his words. Part of me knows that by letting it bother me, it's showing that I really _do _care, and thereby defeats the purpose of my arguments against that fact, though I tell myself that's not what's going on. _He's just been getting on your nerves for a while now,_ I think, trying to make the words sound less like a lie in my mind. _And you're finally putting him in his place. That's all there is to it. Honestly._

Still, this attempt at reassuring myself that what my district partner said was false does nothing to lessen the barely controlled rage in my voice as I advance on him, ignoring the pain in my leg. "_Excuse me_?" I say shrilly and Code looks up at me in shock, one hand rising to try and wipe away the blood now trailing in red rivers from his mouth to chin. "Admit I _cared_? Shocking as it may be, not everyone's a soft-hearted, pathetic excuse for a Career tribute like you, Code. And you know _nothing _about me. So don't even try acting like it."

To my surprise, it seems like, instead of cowering in fear on the ground like I thought he would, Code's actually planning on standing up to me. Literally, as he climbs to his feet and spits back, "Oh, and that stops you from assuming you know everything there is to know about me and my grandmother, huh? Face it, Rhine, you're not the cold-hearted, emotionless Career you want everyone to think you are, and you know it. You miss Cordelia, and I'd even go so far as to say you miss your sister too, and the rest of your family when you were-" He breaks off as I shove forward, hoping to push him straight into a tree and break some sort of vital limb of his, but in my blind rage my aim was off, and Code manages to easily block the blow with his arms. Because it's so hard to believe, I find myself constantly forgetting that my district partner has trained for these Games maybe even more than I have. "When you were reaped," he finishes. "Which must have hurt you too, try as you might to make it seem like it was nothing."

"You . . . you . . ." His words hit me so hard, for a few moments I'm actually speechless, tumultuous roars of anger the only thing I can hear in my mind, leaving no room for insults or comebacks.

"Are right," Code finishes my sentence for me. "So admit it."

"No," I say, glaring back at him, my hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of my sword. "You're wrong."

"You can't keep pretending like this-"

"I'm not pretending anything, so you just shut up!"

"Rhine-"

"Shut. UP!"

"Ahh!"

This last noise is shouted by the two of us simultaneously as a hand wraps around the collars of both of our shirts and shoves us forwards, right over the edge of the deep hole that was our trap. It's not a long fall, but the pain is excruciating as my broken leg hits the ground first and in an effort not to cry out, I bite my lip so hard that tooth slices flesh and a warm, metallic taste fills my mouth, also beginning to run down my face. Great, now Code and I _both_ have the freshly-fed vampire look to us.

"Hey, what's going on?" I try to refocus my vision, which is currently wavering in and out of darkness thanks to the agony shooting through me now, but I manage to clear my sight enough to watch Code stare up at the rim of the hole, the worried look from before back in his eyes. Odd, he seemed to get almost braver when we had our little argument. Why the sudden change to being scared again? But the answer dawns on me as enough pain leaves my head to allow me to think clearly, and I slowly follow the gaze of my district partner to find the source of his fear, smirking down at us from her position on the edge of the hole.

Meredith.

"Yeah, what the heck was that for?" I add, once I'm certain I can open my mouth without betraying any sort of sound that might allude to the pain I'm in.

"I seem to recall once telling you that your arguing gave me a headache," she says, staring down at us. "And headaches make me angry. I gave you fair warning, but I guess it just never sunk into your thick skulls."

I glare at her. "So your response was to push us into a hole? What are we, five? Sure, give us a time out. Go ahead and ground us, _Mom_."

She doesn't rise to the bait; on the contrary, she just smiles, causing my stomach to do little flip flops of fear despite my determination not to be scared of Meredith. I mean, I knew she was cracking, it was obvious to all of us immediately (except maybe Code), but I never assumed I personally would have to deal with this. All through Meredith's arguments with the rest of us back at the tower, I was keeping an eye on Janaff and Perrin, who seemed to be communicating silently about _something_. I was guessing it was some sort of plan they'd created just in case of something like this; Janaff, despite his _infinite_ faults in the physical abilities department, would have been smart enough to foresee this happening. So I figured I'd let them have their fun, watch them take care of Meredith, and be on my way before they got cocky and decided to off any other Careers. Because, let's face it, I'd be their next target. Honestly, I'm not even being cocky this time; it's a simple fact that, with Rowan gone off who knows where (I don't believe Perrin's story for a second about the two of them falling into a Gamemaker trap), once Meredith's gone I'll be the only Career left who's killed someone, thereby making me the next biggest threat. Yep, Meredith, Rowan and me; the only three tributes Career-enough to stomach killing someone.

_But there was one more, _a little voice whispers in my ear. _One other Career who took down a tribute. But she didn't handle it very well, did she? And of course, she wouldn't be considered a threat after all because she's, you know, dead. Very, very much dead. Smashed on the rocks and burned and torn to pieces-_

_ENOUGH, _I think furiously. Thinking about that isn't going to help matters; and besides, I currently have bigger things to worry about.

"Oh, don't think of this as a punishment," Meredith says, leering down at us from above. "Really, this is more of a reward."

"W-what kind of reward?" Obviously Code doesn't believe anything good is going to come out of this.

Meredith grins at him, the barely-concealed fear in his voice only heightening her craziness. It's like she feeds off of the panic of other tributes, and after having two kills, both of which refused to die begging for mercy, she's ready for more blood. The uneasy sensation is back in my stomach, and this time I can't entirely push it away. "Well, you two have been going at it for _ages_. It's clear you don't like each other. Am I right?"

Code and I look at each other, the answer clearly written in our eyes. Yes, we get on each other's nerves and overall don't have a particular fondness for one another, but now that we seem to be stuck in the same boat (or rather, hole), both faced with the much bigger threat of our well-off-the-deep-end co-leader, we've almost reached some sort of mutual agreement to put aside our differences, if only for a short time. Like back at the tower, when we were both faced with the same problem of covering that oh-so-embarrassing event of having that little twerp from Six manage, not only to climb our tower, hide out for a while _and _leave unscarred, but to steal some of our supplies as well. After that fact, Code and I were actually able to sit down and have a relatively reasonable conversation about how there was no way we'd be telling _anyone _about what had happened. It almost makes me think of a time back in District 2, years and years ago, when I was learning about the rebellion in school. It had made absolutely no sense to me, and I'd come home and gone to my father, a rare occurrence considering I usually never, _ever_ asked anyone questions.

"_What's wrong, Rhine?"_

"_School's stupid."_

_My father laughs and my words, probably one of the last times he'll ever react to my outbursts in such a way. "And why is that?"_

"_They said in the rebellion, all the districts fought together against the Capitol."_

_He frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Yes."_

"_But that's impossible! We hate the people from Twelve! And they don't like us either, or the others from One and Four! Plus Five and Six have never gotten along, and Nine always had a grudge against Thirteen . . ."_

"_Whoa there." My father holds up his hand and I reluctantly fall silent. "I think I understand."_

"_It's just so stupid!" I start again, unable to remain quiet for too long. "How could we have ever teamed up with them? It's like me and Lura working together!"_

"_No, it should be completely different, because we don't hate our family members," my father says sternly. I forgot that everyone always loved Lura and any slight against her was a terrible sin. But then he relents and says gently. "Well, Rhine, back in the times of the rebellion, yes, quite a few districts had grudges against each other. But sometimes, the two of you hate something else even more, and you agree to put aside your differences to team up and destroy it." He smiles. "Nothing unites people like having a common enemy. Do you understand?" I nod, not really comprehending his words, but tired of sitting and listening to him talk. "Good. Now," he continues, looking around nervously, "We probably shouldn't be talking about this sort of thing. Your mother needs your help with the laundry, off you go."_

It was true; District 2 had always been in a bit of competition with District 12 (why I'll never know, considering how pathetic they are), and I'd heard that Five and Six had a bit of playful rivalry going on too. It had confused me to no end when I was younger, but now, staring up into the face of our crazed leader, I think it's safe to say that Code and I might just be able to put aside our differences, if it means having to deal with Meredith first.

The District 4 girl rolls her eyes as we refuse to answer her question. "I _said_ you both hated each other. Am. I. Right?"

Code glances at me, unsure. "Well . . ."

"We're not exactly kindred spirits or anything," I finish, crossing my arms.

"No, you're enemies. Rivals. Adversaries," Meredith says, staring down at the two of us. Her icy blue eyes, usually so cold and distant, now have a distinctly disturbing glean to them, and even I can't help but feel nervous and the sight of it. "So I'm going to give you the chance of a lifetime. I'm sure you've both been thinking about how the arena isn't big enough for the both of you, yes?" She doesn't even need verbal responses; Code and I can't entirely hide the looks on our faces that clearly state we've both had that _exact_ thought. "Exactly. And now you have the chance to take care of that problem."

"W-what?" Though by the way Code hesitates as he says the word, I can tell he's started to guess the twisted meaning behind Meredith's words. The idea's already crossed my mind. But surely she wouldn't be crazy enough to do that. Would she?

"Both of you have a weapon. Neither of you can run. You both hate each other and would love to continue living without the constant annoyance of the other." Meredith bends down and smiles at us from the edge of the hole. "I'm sure the audience is getting bored with the inactivity and lack of kills the Career Pack is getting. So let's give them the show they so desperately want to watch. Take your arguments to the physical level. Let your anger out on your enemy.

"Kill them."

For a moment, all Code and I can do is stare up at her in shock. Then, slowly, the two of us turn to each other, and as our gazes lock, I see the same war raging behind Code's eyes as the battle being fought in my mind. _Do it!_ part of my brain screams. _She's right, you've hated him from the beginning!_ And yet, my hand refuses to move towards the hilt of my sword. The sadistic voice in my head jeers at me and calls me pathetic: didn't I kill someone already? Yes, the weird boy from Nine. _But that's different_, another voice mutters in my head, quiet, but strong enough to still my hand. He was a generic tribute from an outlier district, like Bree from 5 or the pair from Twelve. I didn't know what there was to their life, so I didn't feel bad about trying to take it away from them. But Code . . . Code . . .

_He's from home, _the smaller voice whispers. _And you never really hated him._

_Yes, I did! _the other side of my mind shouts. _And I'll kill him! I'll kill him before he kills me!_

_He won't. You don't get along, but you don't want to do this._

_I do!_

_Then do it. Kill him._

_I-_

_Well?_

_I . . ._

_Sitting up at the tower, listening to my idiotic district partner try and fill the awkward silence with his inane babble._

_I . . ._

_Sharing the sponsor gift with Code back up at the tower. Telling him the story of the soup. A story that makes me seem vulnerable, weak; gives him plenty of opportunity to tease me. But he doesn't._

_I . . ._

_Just a short while ago, talking together and agreeing not to tell anyone about Catherine. Actually agreeing on something._

_I . . . can't._

My hand falls to my side limply, the hilt of my sword distinctly missing from its grasp. It'd be so easy, even with my broken leg, to just lunge forwards and plunge the blade into his chest; I doubt he'd even be able to react. He always had slow reflexes, and he hadn't even made a move to get out his own weapon. So easy . . . and yet, I can't do it. I, Rhine Carson, the Career who murdered an innocent boy in cold blood as was fully prepared to kill others again, can't kill my irritating, fate-obsessed district partner because despite our animosity, there's an odd, comforting familiarity in having each other around. Before the Games, Lura told me how attached she grew to Micah, the boy from Two in her Games. A while into the Games, he went insane, and murdered the rest of the Career Pack. Lura barely escaped with her life. The Capitol, never wanting a crazed victor, tried to kill him in a rock slide, but they only succeeded in injuring him horribly. The pain seemed to have knocked some sense into him and when Lura found him again, he was broken in another way, traumatised by what he'd done and weak from the agony of his wounds. She could have killed him then, and if it were anyone else, she would have, too – this was a time when my sister had transformed into a fearless killing machine, emotions locked tightly away so she could possibly live to see come home again. But she couldn't do it. She'd told me the wave of memories they'd shared in the arena, even the bad ones where they'd fought, were too overwhelming, impossible to disregard. So, despite what he'd done, Lura had tried everything she could to help the murderer of her allies, and had even shed a tear when he'd died two days later from his injuries. Because he was from home. He might as well have been her brother.

Is that what this is now? Code and I, are we still enemies? Or have we turned into bickering siblings? When did that change happen?

Maybe it was always there. Because maybe, no matter how hard you train, no matter how good you are at detaching yourself from the world, it's impossible to forget everything about a person you spent seven days trusting with your life. It's impossible to forget what you'd be taking away.

"No," I say, shocking everyone, including myself. Meredith turns to me with a look of disbelief painted on her face, and Code seems confused too, almost as though he expected me to be excited about this opportunity to kill him. But as soon as our eyes lock, it's clear to the both of us that this isn't going to happen. Enemies or not, we're district partners, and we're not killing each other unless it's absolutely necessary.

"Excuse me," Meredith says, a dangerous edge creeping back into her voice, but I ignore it, beginning to get some of my own attitude back myself.

"No," I repeat again, perhaps a little snarkier than wise in this situation. "This is stupid. There's fourteen of us left, why would we want to reduce the amount of Careers when there're plenty of other tributes to kill off?"

"Because your arguing is getting on my nerves," Meredith says, bending lower to glare down at me.

"Maybe you should ask your sponsors for some earplugs then."

Her eyes narrow coldly, but then she glances towards Code and grins. "Well, will you look at that? It seems your district partner has more guts than you do."

I follow her gaze and watch as, to my shock, Code slowly takes the knife out of his belt. What? Was I wrong about him? Instantly, my own hand goes to the sword in my belt, previous qualms forgotten in light of this potential threat, but I barely have time to arm myself before he throws the knife to the ground. "Yeah," he says, more bravely than I've ever seen him speak in front of Meredith. "This is stupid."

The smirk slides off her face like hot butter off a plate, to be replaced by an expression ten times more horrifying than any I've seen her wear before. My backtalk, she can handle; she's been putting up with it since the Games began. But now Code is actually disregarding her orders and standing up to her? Not only that, but the two of us have banded together against her. She was dangerous enough coming into the arena, but lately, especially these past few hours, I've been just waiting for the trigger that's going to cause her to snap, a small part of me almost eager to see it; to watch our oh-so-superior leader fall into the chaos of insanity. Now, though, the reality is hitting me that when she does finally lose it, I probably won't be laughing. None of us will.

Barely taking my eyes off of Meredith, I gaze furtively around the surrounding forest. Where are Perrin and Janaff? If things really go the way we've all been uneasy about, then they'd better be around when it happens. Not that I want their help, if we end up having to fight Meredith. Trust me, it's the last thing I want.

But it might just be something Code and I will need.

"I thought District 2 always sent merciless, bloodthirsty Careers into the arena," Meredith practically spits at us. "Why did _this_ have to be the year we got two spineless, _pathetic_ wimps?"

Funnily enough, while the two of us have been waiting for our leader to lose it nearly this whole time, it's something inside _me_ that snaps at her words. I've been called rude, insulting, impulsive and even arrogant on the occasion, but pathetic crosses the line. All through the Capitol, I could see it in the eyes of my escort, the Gamemakers, even some of my fellow tributes; I was a reaped Career, a rare occurrence, and on the off chance it _does_ happen, the kid in question is usually weak, untrained, an object of disgust in the district for not having our usual Career mentality. No one expected me to be any good, and I spent all week hearing my weaknesses compared to Lura's strengths.

But it's not just that. I take people's opinions with a grain of salt, why would I give their criticisms any more thought? I mean, sure, I might have felt a _bit_ (and a very small bit, mind you) disconcerted when even the most die-hard Careers in my district decided not to volunteer, but please, it's not like I live my entire life in the hopes of impressing _those _morons. We have enough vain, conceited teens in Two for that. But the one person whose insults I can't always ignore is myself. And since Cordelia . . . well, the sadistic, cold-hearted Career voice inside my head has been throwing around the word 'pathetic' quite often thanks to my rather less-than-uncaring reaction.

"_You're _the one who's pathetic," I snarl back before I can stop myself. The pain in my leg, the hollowness and irritability I've been feeling ever since the dragon attack, it all starts to come pouring out, triggered by Meredith's one ridiculous plan. "Demanding we kill each other? Are you _insane_? Please, we're not stupid enough to break up the alliance because of a few small arguments. I don't see how you could possibly consider yourself as our 'leader,' seeing as you're the craziest out of all of us. And don't think we haven't noticed either. What was it you were always saying?" A cold smirk coats my face at the memory of Meredith's seemingly favourite phrase during the training days, something she'd always be repeating to us. "'In the Career Pack, any weak links will have to be abolished immediately.'" I stare at her pointedly, still smirking, but with none of my usual mischievousness or casual arrogance. No, this smirk might as well be a sneer, as harsh and menacing as the one it's intended for. "I'd consider insanity to be a pretty big weak link, wouldn't you?"

For a moment, I swear she's going to kill me. I never really cared much for the glares people sent my way, and I always dismissed the whole "looks can kill" saying with a scornful laugh, but as Meredith's gaze bores holes into me, I begin to understand the idea behind the phrase. Only this icy stare doesn't just _feel_ like it could stop my heart beat in a second. It's making a promise that it will.

Which is why, as Meredith jumps down into the hole between me and Code, I step back involuntarily. It's not _cowardly_, it's just . . . a precaution. I don't like the look still present in her eyes.

What's perhaps even more unsettling though is the fact that she doesn't immediately jump into a rage and start slashing at everything she sees. Instead, all she says is, "Out. Now." You can see why Code and I might be a bit confused. And completely set on edge.

"W-what?" my district partner asks, disbelief evident in his tone. I don't think either of us was expecting Meredith to sound so calm after all that. Though as I continue to analyse her, I start to realise she's not 'calm' at all. She's waiting, plotting. She's up to something.

"Out of the hole. If you're not going to be Careers and take the opportunity I'm giving you, then you can at the very least get back up to where you might be useful. Now pick up your knife and get out." I'm sure Code notices that at least _something _is up, but after a moment's hesitation, he goes to do as she says. Wants to avoid anymore conflict, I guess. But I don't have as high hopes that this thing can easily be resolved just by following more of Meredith's orders, and as she watches my district partner for a moment before deliberately turning towards me, I realise I'm right. Code doesn't see it, thanks to the fact that she's facing me, but I get a full view as our leader's eyes land on me and, ever so slowly, she changes. It starts with the corners of her mouth begin to twitch upwards, and it's such a small motion that at first I feel as though I must have imagined it; but then her smile begins to grow wider and wider, stretching so far that it quickly begins to look less like a grin and more like someone took a knife to her face and carved a crescent shape from one ear to another. But it's her eyes that really get me; whereas they were cold only moments ago, they're now ablaze with a fiery, demonic light. It's really happening: she's snapped.

She takes a step towards me, ironically calm despite the madness present in her expression, and I do my best to keep as far from her as possible. Tooth grinds against tooth as I bite back a shout, putting more weight on my injured leg than should be present in order to stay away, but too soon my back's hitting the solid wall of dirt that marks the end of the hole. Frantically, my eyes dart around the edges of the ground above, but it's much too high for me to reach, and without my crutch (which dropped from my grasp when Meredith first pushed us into the hole) I have no hope of managing to climb up. She's got me trapped.

"Hey, what're you doing?" For the first time in my life, I'm actually genuinely relieved that Code is around. While he has yet to notice Meredith's crazed expression, he can tell something's up by the look on my face as our leader slowly advances towards me.

"Rhine's going to need some help up," she answers, and her tone sends sluices of cold crawling down my spine. She takes another step towards me and, despite all my previous attempts at maintaining a cool, uncaring façade, I don't hesitate to press myself as far into the dirt wall as I can in an effort to escape her presence. "Won't you, Rhine?"

Code seems to have fully realised by now that the danger centered around our Career leader is far from over, and, surprisingly, he doesn't shy away from her this time. "I'll help her," he says, cautiously stepping forwards and holding his knife out in a defensive position, not an open threat, but not stuck uselessly in his belt either. Still, the tiny blade seems to pale in comparison next to the giant axe strapped to Meredith's back, or even the whip at her belt. Without even thinking, I abandon the last shred of dignity and independence I have and scan the forest wildly for Janaff and Perrin. Where _are_ they?

Meredith doesn't even turn to acknowledge Code's presence, her eyes still firmly fixed on me. "No, no. Wouldn't want you to strain yourself."

"Seriously, I'll-"

Quick as a flash, Meredith's hand snakes out and wraps tightly around Code's wrist, so fast neither of us even have time to blink. My district partner jolts back in shock, then, regaining his wits, starts trying to wriggle out of her grasp, opening his mouth in protest. But his words are weak, the fear evident in his tone, and Meredith pays him no heed, instead choosing to finally take her eyes off me and instead use them to examine the blade still held in Code's imprisoned hand.

"H-hey, let go. Let . . . go . . ." He stammers into silence and looks to me for advice, but I have nothing to offer except my own slightly horrified expression, which only helps to reinforce Code's terror. Stepping forwards, he yanks his arm back with strength only fear and adrenaline can lend, giving a louder, yet no more commanding, "Let _go_."

His words are cut off instantly as Meredith crushes Code's wrist so tightly between her fingers I swear I can hear the bones grate against one another. He barely has time to gasp in response before she effortlessly twists his arm, forcing him to fall to his knees or risk having his limb wrenched apart by the Career's vise-like grip. As is, an audible _snap _can be heard in the dead silence around us, and my ally's barely concealed shout gives some indication as to the degree of the injury. For a moment, all thoughts of Meredith and what she can do leave me, and the only thing remaining in my mind is the fact that someone is threatening our alliance and the normal Rhine Carson would most certainly _not_ just stand there and passively allow this to happen. Hobbling to try and keep the pressure off my broken leg, I manage a half-step forward before stopping in my tracks as the perilous reality of our situation comes back to me, helped along by the razor-sharp dagger now pointed lazily in my direction.

"A pity," Meredith says, keeping her eyes on the weapon, as though enraptured by the way the metal reflects her crazed expression. Code gasps in pain from his spot kneeling on the ground as she turns his wrist the way an artist might turn a sculpture, to examine his work in detail. My district partner's limp fingers are still held tightly in place around the hilt of the blade, courtesy of Meredith's grip moving upwards to keep the knife from falling to the ground and Code from going anywhere. And me as well, when you consider the fact that if I take even so much as another step, I'll be walking right into my death. Desperately, my eyes rove the edges of the hole once more, searching frantically for an escape, a weapon, something I could use against Meredith. _Come on, come on . . ._

_Idiot!_ I think, my mind filling with a sudden epiphany, and my hands fly to the sword at my belt. In all the chaos, I'd completely forgotten it was there, but now I don't hesitate to draw it out in front of me, the long blade dwarfing the tiny dagger in comparison and deluding me into thinking that I might actually stand a chance.

Unfortunately, there's one problem with delusions; they're not reality. Meredith just laughs at the sight of my sword and, taking advantage of the fact that my eyes are on her own weapon and not watching the ground beneath us, she sweeps her right leg out towards me, foot connecting with a horrendous _crack!_ right on my broken leg.

I can't entirely muffle the scream building in my throat as I collapse, all thoughts of using my sword vanishing, and it clatters uselessly to the ground a good foot from me. _Too far, _a small part of my brain registers, although most of my mind is just trying not to black out, torrents of white-hot pain flaring up from my injury. I grit my teeth and gasp, hands flying to the site of the wound, but freeze immediately as even the smallest of movement threatens to overload my senses with agony. It's all I can do not to lose consciousness.

"I gave you two such a great opportunity." Past the raging shadows threatening to darken my vision, I just barely manage to make out Meredith, still standing above me, her eyes fixated back on the knife. "If only you'd listened to what I said. And it would have been so easy too." Even just the effort of keeping my head up to watch her is nearly too much, but before it drops, exhausted, I catch one final glimpse of Meredith's crazed stare flickering to me. "Just. Like. This."

For the briefest of moments, my pained, exhausted gaze locks on Code's horrified eyes as he watches me helplessly. Then, the knife is thrust into my stomach, and everything goes black.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

I'm not sure whose scream tips us off first. To my ears, they sounded as one, a raucous aria of terror and pain. But its message is clear. We're late. Far too late.

Perrin immediately takes off running towards the source of the noise and, after a moment's hesitation, I grab the item responsible for our being here from its hiding place inside the hollow of a tree and follow after him. _We shouldn't have left them, _I think as the two of us crash back through the forest. _We should have known better._ Meredith had become far too large of a threat to leave unwatched, especially when stuck with the ever discordant Rhine Carson. Perrin's the only one who can even hope to rein her in when she's this far gone; I should have insisted he stay while I went to grab the project myself.

_The project_. A device of my own invention, built for one purpose and one purpose alone: Meredith's destruction. Unlike some of my other allies, who enjoy thinking of themselves as untouchable or invincible, I have no such arrogance or faith in myself. I know that, if it came down to an ordinary weapons fight between myself and Meredith (or really any other Career for that matter), I'd be dead before I could even draw a knife from my belt. That's why I have to make sure that, if it really does happen, then it won't be an ordinary weapons fight at all.

A new shout mingles with the continuing scream from earlier, so fierce and commanding that I know immediately it must be Meredith. Still, there's something in her tone, the nearly hysterical edge in her voice that chills me to the bone and nearly causes me to freeze in my tracks. As it is, my eyes widen at the thought of what I might find back at the clearing, and I forget to keep my gaze on the ground beneath my feet; almost as if it materialised from thin air, a tree root appears in my path, catching my shoe and nearly causing me to tumble to the ground, dropping the object in my hands as I go. My breath catches in my throat as I watch it fall from my arms, and desperate fingers fly out through the air to snare it before it breaks. I don't even breathe until the package is back safely in my arms, and even then I only get the time to exhale one relieved sigh; the memories of what has and will soon be happening come back too fast to allow for anymore feelings of respite.

Still, at least the thing didn't go off here; that would have been very, very bad, for myself and everyone else. This object is the only thing that could potentially stop Meredith before anyone else gets hurt. Even though it may seem like overkill to murder one person using a bomb.

It's a very small bomb, mind. I'd had the idea one night on watch, when I found myself staring at part of the tower that had been blown away during the bloodbath. I had been on the other side of the Cornucopia at the time, and had only heard the explosion and seen the smoke rise from it. At first I'd just assumed some less than intelligent tribute had triggered the mines, but Perrin, who had been four plates away from the spot, had recounted what had really happened; how the boy from Eleven had had the clever idea to jump off the tower before the sixty seconds were up, giving him enough time to make his escape before the Gamemakers could react and set off the mines manually. Smart. It's something I might have come up with, had I no allies and the physical prowess to pull something like that off.

But seeing the hole had got me thinking, and after examining the mine's placement and calculating the circumference of the tower's rim, I'd deduced that the explosion had blown away enough of the tower to allow me to potentially get at some of the other inactive, yet untouched mines.

What followed was many careful chiselling sessions as I attempted to chip away at the rocky surface of the tower to the nearest mine, something that might have taken ages had I not reassured myself that my work couldn't possibly cause the mines to go off. They were disabled after the first 60 seconds of the Games. Still, that hadn't stopped me from being extremely, _extremely _careful once I'd finally unearthed the device. What would be amazing is if I knew enough to reset the mine, giving myself a very large, very dangerous bomb. But, while I pride myself on my intelligence, I didn't have the good fortune of growing up in District 3, and I wasn't confident enough in my skills to try and rewire a device that could kill us all if I just so much as connected the wrong wires. Extricating certain key parts of the explosive was nerve-wracking enough.

But I'd done it, and when combined with three flares I'd found present in the pile of supplies lying inside the Cornucopia, the result was a small bomb that I was pretty sure would work. One flare by itself might not be incredibly dangerous, but when combined with another two, well, the increase in power should be considerable. Not to mention the fact that the fire from the flares will cause the black powder I'd extracted from the mine and attached with a small capsule to the device to ignite, and the result should be quite a fireworks show. I just hope it works.

I finally crash through the last of the trees and find myself back in the clearing, facing the gigantic tree and nearly running into Perrin as I do so. My glasses threaten to fall from my face as I skid to a stop, and it takes me a moment to realise why we've stopped. From the screams we'd heard earlier, Code and Rhine need our help. But then I place the lenses once more in front of my eyes and realise why we're stopped.

The clearing is empty. Meredith, Rhine, Code; all of them, gone. Perrin runs off once more, going to circle the tree and calling all of their names as he does so, immune to the fear that another tribute might hear us. I consider heading off in the opposite direction, to widen the area we can search, but quickly think better of it. I don't like my chances of coming up on Meredith alone; goodness knows what she's done to Rhine and Code.

_But they're still alive, _I remind myself in an attempt to calm my nerves as I slowly begin to follow Perrin. _Still alive, or you would have heard their cannon._

Mind you, when you're alive and at the mercy of Meredith, death might just be the better option.

_Not helping, Janaff._

So caught up in attempting to reassure myself, I barely notice Perrin's shouts grow more distant before they've almost faded into nonexistence, leaving me very alone, and very exposed, in the clearing. Feelings of vulnerability overcome me and I shift one hand to the knife at my belt, but unlike my allies, this gesture does nothing to comfort me in the slightest. Even holding the bomb does little to slow my racing heart; I'd made tons of calculations and recalculations when it came to this plan, and in the end the best result I'd come up with was that we'd have to immobilise Meredith somewhere, or at least make sure she stayed in one place long enough for the full effect of the explosion to hit her. She can't get the opportunity to run or she might evade the worst of the blast and, ultimately, live. Which would lead to a very angry Meredith and a very dead me.

I'm about to pick up the pace and follow Perrin off to look for the others when something catches my eyes. Since we're in a forest, it's not all that uncommon for broken branches and twigs to be lying around in the grass. However, the stick on the ground is one I recognise well as the one we found for Rhine in an attempt to help ease her struggles with her broken leg. I hadn't seen her walk without the crutch since she got it, and looking at it now, lying uselessly on the ground, sends shivers up my spine. She'd never have dropped it of her own accord; it must have been forced from her hands some other way.

I gaze around at the trees surrounding me, not entirely sure whether I actually wanted to spot our three missing allies or not, when something else clicks in my mind about the fallen crutch. It's close to the Gamemaker trap we turned into our own, around the spot where I last saw Code and Rhine stand before disappearing into the woods with Perrin to collect the explosive. If the pair from Two had had a chance to run from Meredith before being attacked, Rhine would have used the stick to help in her escape, which means that it should have fallen further from the hole. Even if Meredith had stopped them right there and forced her to drop the crutch, it seems odd that our leader, so close to the edge of insanity, would have had the patience to trail to hostages with her into the forest. She would have just used what was around her . . .

_The hole. _My eyes zero in on it immediately and I swallow hard, deliberately beginning to creep nearer to it. If my theory is correct, then I should really call Perrin, as backup. But as I continue at my achingly slow pace, other ideas come to mind. The stick could have been tossed, or could have rolled along the ground. I might find absolutely nothing in that hole after all.

At least, I think that. Until I see the foot.

I nearly jump out of my skin as my gaze lands on the sturdy brown boot that is part of each tribute's outfit, though there's a large difference between this one and others. Mainly, the crimson flow of blood that seems to have cascaded over the faded brown leather, staining the material and drying on some parts, which causes pools of black to form on the shoe, while fresh blood still drips freely from an invisible wound. However the injury quickly becomes visible as I continue around the hole, and the victim of such agony.

Rhine.

Whether my heart skips one beat or one thousand, I can't tell; all I manage to register is the fact that my ally, someone who was very much alive just a little while ago, is now slumped in a pool of her own blood, one hand limply curled around the gigantic gash in her stomach. Her eyes are closed and I would have immediately thought of her as dead, had I not remembered that no cannons had gone off, not to mention the fact that the slightest of motions is visible from her chest as it rises and falls shakily with her breathing. I should help her, I should jump into that hole and do something, maybe even just call for Perrin. Anything. Anything.

But I can't. As many scenarios as I went through in my mind, as many calculations I made and plans I thought over, I could never have prepared myself for the reality of seeing _this_. Even in the bloodbath, the deaths didn't seem as gruesome compared to the near-murder of a tribute I'd gotten to know over the course of the Games. But there's something else to my reaction too, another reason this event is impacting me harder. My brain is still in shock after catching sight of the dying, motionless body on the ground, and losing the ability to think clearly puts me on edge immediately. It's not one I've experienced often, and leaves me feeling empty, defenceless, vulnerable.

_Vulnerable_. The familiar sensation floods back through me and with it, the memory of its cause in the first place. Meredith. Where is she? As though I was jolted by an electric shock, my whole body jumps and I whirl around, searching wildly for the missing Career. If she could do this to Rhine, render her so close to death, I don't even want to imagine what could happen to me . . .

And Code? Still getting over the effects of sudden bursts of terror, my mind takes longer than usual to finally kick in and allow me to fully remember everything. Where is Rhine's district partner, the boy who'd been my own companion on so many occasions? The first night of hunting, that day with the dragon . . . for the sake of self-preservation, I'd tried hard never to count any of the Careers as my friend, but if I did, well, Code just might come the closest.

So I can't entirely stop the worry from flooding through me at the sight of one near-dead ally on the ground while another is missing, and the panic clouds my mind for a few seconds before my brain finally whirs back into action with a possible solution. At my vantage point, well away from the edge of the hold and staring into it at a diagonal angle, my view of what's inside the fissure is greatly restricted. But slowly, as the idea dawns on me, I reluctantly begin to move to the side, edging my way around the hole to increase my view while still trying to stay as far away from it as possible. I know I should be rushing to Rhine's aid, but there's an odd sense of foreboding in the air that's telling me to wait, think, evaluate the potential threats. At least a second, previously invisible figure come into view. Then all thoughts in my head stop.

It's Code; that much is clear. But the sight of him doesn't relieve me in the slightest; instead, all I feel is revulsion, horror, and the urge to throw up.

It's the blood that draws my stunned gaze. Blood in the shape of two jagged slashes of ripped skin opening diagonally from shoulder to hip. Blood matting in his black hair and forming clots nearly as dark. Blood dripping lazily down arms held above his head, one of which is showing the swollen signs of broken bones inside. My gaze continues travelling upwards and my gasp is nearly audible as I catch sight of the source of the crimson liquid, other than the two fresh wounds across his chest. The blood had managed to seep down his arms and onto his hair from his hands, which were lifted above Code's head. And held there by his own knife, stabbing right through the flesh and bones of both palms to anchor itself in the dirt on the hole's wall beyond.

"Oh, my . . . oh, my . . ." But I can't even manage to finish the sentence, caught between the urge to run forwards and help versus the overwhelming desire to sprint as far as I can in the opposite direction, and the intense pull of the conflicting ideas causes me to do an odd rocking motion back and forth as I try to make up my mind. But I can't even calm my brain down enough to choose what to do, because the only thing occupying my thoughts is this horrifying torture that lies before me. It's like my mind is refusing to process it, denying its existence. After years of understanding everything I've ever learnt and accepting the knowledge, my brain has finally shut down and found itself unable to comprehend the sight before it.

But not thinking, not being aware of every little detail around you, is dangerous. My parents forgot to pay attention to one miniscule aspect of their plan when they tried to instigate their rebellion fourteen years ago, and they were killed for it. And in light of the abominable sight before me, it completely slips my mind that the exact same fate could await me if I'm not careful.

My eyes are still glued to the grotesque mess of Code's hands, but I do register a flash of blue as my ally's eyes flash open; my shocked stammers must have alerted him to my presence. When I'd first saw him, gaping injuries, blood everywhere, eyes closed, I'd automatically assumed he was unconscious like his district partner; had I been paying attention though, I would have noticed how he was still standing upright by himself, how his eyes weren't closed in the almost peaceful expression of sleep, but screwed tightly shut, how his entire body was leaning as far to the side as possible without deepening the gashes in his palms. It all screamed panic, fear, an attempt at trying to get as far away from some unknown danger as possible. But I'd missed it. And I'd completely missed spotting the reason Code hadn't screamed for help sooner.

His frightened gaze lands on me and, for a moment, the only thing I feel is an immense relief coursing through my veins at the fact that he isn't dead. Odd; I'd repeated to myself numerous times not to grow attached to the Careers in case of later betrayals. But that doesn't stop the worry from leaving me, even as I stare into Code's panic-filled gaze, clearing trying to warn me about something. I don't stop to think about that, I don't stop to think about the reason he has yet to say anything to me. Instead I start forwards, ignoring the sense of foreboding still present in the air and heading right up to the edge of the hole.

"Code! You're-"

Two words; that's all it takes. In the time for me to utter the two syllables, my brain finally registers what's so wrong about this scenario. But it still isn't fast enough.

So caught up in the sickening sight of Code's knife plunging straight through his palms, I'd failed to notice another blade, this one an axe, and pressed so close to the boy's throat that the moment it moved away I could spot the thin line of blood it had drawn across my ally's neck. On the first word I spoke, I finally registered the presence of the weapon; on the second, I started to wonder what it was doing there. It was on the third word that my brain would settle on the conclusion that its existence was to keep Code from speaking, an ever-present threat should he decide to call for help. Then my mind would finally begin to wonder how the axe was being held in place.

Unfortunately, I'd never managed to speak my third word. And for the first time since I can remember, my own mind reacts slower than another's.

I'm right on the brink of the hole when the axe blade slides smoothly away from Code's throat; the motion sends warning signals coursing through my body and, finally listening to intuition, I take a step back, but not before the whip snaps through the air with an audible _crack, _slicing through the grass right beside my first.

I jump at the proximity of the weapon and nearly lose my balance; and the precious weapon held in my arms. It threatens to topple to the ground again and I quickly reposition my grip, but too late I realise I was focusing on the wrong thing. All through the training days I watched Meredith, and I'd barely managed to find any flaw in her technique. Just the fact that she missed once with her weapon shows how far gone she is in the realm of insanity, but even a completely crazy Meredith wouldn't stand to miss twice.

With the bomb back stably in my arms, I go to run, but before I can even turn in the opposite direction the leather cord snakes out again and this time, it hits home. I give a shout of surprise as the whip connects painfully with my ankle and wraps its way around the skin, leaving a harsh line of red in its wake. But before I can react any further, the weapon is yanked forward and this time, I completely topple off balance as my foot is jerked out from under me. My back hits the ground hard and I can feel the breath evaporate from my lungs on contact; desperately, I gasp for air, trying to get the much-needed oxygen back into my system. Oxygen is needed to think and that's something I really need to be doing right now. Thinking. Thinking about Meredith. About her and insanity, Code and Rhine, my plan for this, the bomb . . . Oh gosh, the bomb. Did it break in the fall? Will it still work, can it-?

"Well, well, well." My gaze darts up from the device in my lap and I nearly jump out of my skin as I come face to face with the icy stare of Meredith's cold blue eyes. But there's something more to them than before, a crazed, maniacal glint that never used to be present. It's happened. She's really lost it.

And I'm lying defenceless on the ground in front of her.

_Not defenceless, _my mind thinks furiously, finally getting the air it needs to function again. _Your knife, use your knife! _But I can't even manage to unclasp my fingers from their death grip on the bomb, petrified that if I let go, I'll lose it and it'll all be over. Though that doesn't stop me from scrambling backwards as Meredith jerks the whip once to free it from its hold on one of the tree's upper branches; I guess she used it as a rope to climb from the hole so quickly. "Where are you going, Janaff?" she asks casually; my attempts to back away aren't the most subtle and definitely don't go unnoticed by her. She lashes out with the whip and I flinch in anticipation of the hit; once more the rope entangles itself with my leg to stop me from leaving, and this time I don't even react, frozen in place by the horror of my situation, which has gone from bad to worse in a heartbeat. Meredith yanks me closer with the weapon and smiles, a smile more terrifying than any I've seen before it. "Don't you want to come have some _fun_? I told you the trap was there so I could play with my food before I ate it."

"I . . . I . . ." Words are frantically trying to leap out of my throat – disgusted accusations to be thrown at Meredith, cries of help to be heard by Perrin – but all I can manage is a few hoarse syllables that only seem to egg the crazed Career on.

"Sorry, didn't catch that," she says, kneeling down in front of me so that we're nearly on the same level, but there's no question as to who holds the power in this situation. But just in case it's not entirely clear, Meredith presses the head of her axe into my ankle, right over the still-red spot where her whip lashed out. It isn't sharp and doesn't draw any immediate blood, but just the force with which she pushes down on the raw skin is enough to send tiny spikes of pain running through my leg, but it's not that I'm worried; moreover the agony that could soon follow. "You know, it's too bad," Meredith continues and I refocus on her, though out of the corner of my eye I scan the forest, looking for any sign of Perrin. My throat is frozen in fear, too dry to call out, but part of me hopes that Code might yet be able to get his attention. However, from the silence in the hole, I can tell that the same thing that's got me speechless has him at a loss for words as well. "You missed a heck of a party earlier. Rhine's pretty much finished, but Code and I were going to keep at it. 'Least until we heard the two of you coming," she adds, leering down at me. "I figured it be best to save him for later then. Wouldn't want either of you ruining the party." She leans in closer, but the pressure is still on my leg and as much as I want to, I can't back up at all to get away. "So . . . Where. Is. Perrin?"

"I don't . . . I . . ."

"You'll have to speak up Janaff. We're not in a library after all." She smirks down at me, and then seems to register the bomb for the first time since she spotted me. "And what's this?"

"No!" As she slides the whip back into her belt, hand reaches out to touch the device, enough courage returns to allow me to yank it away; if there's one thing I know, it's that she cannot get a hold of the bomb. Then we're all doomed.

I wasn't expecting my outburst to work but, surprisingly, she withdraws her hand. Maybe it's because of shock herself. But then her grin is back in place, and slowly her free hand wanders over to my leg, rolling the pant leg up to my knee and beginning to stroke the thin stretch of skin covering the bone beneath. My grandmother always said I could do with a bit of extra weight on me, that I was too skinny and bony like my father, and now I can see why it's such a problem. Meredith's nails are like talons, strong and razor sharp, and the small amount of skin on my calf does absolutely nothing to prevent her from slicing her claw-like hands into my leg, straight to the bone.

At first I just grimace and gasp, trying to ignore the pain surging through me, but as she continues with no sign of letting up it becomes harder and harder to contain full on screams. Blinking through tears of pain, I can't stop myself from looking over and my leg, which I positive is being ripped to shreds by Meredith's constant attacks with her nails. I don't know if what I actually see is better or worse.

"There," Meredith finishes with one final slash on my ankle, even deeper than the rest, and this time I can't manage to stop the shriek at my lips. She almost delicately wipes excess the excess blood away, pulling back her crimson-coated hand, giving me a view of her finished work. There, written across my leg in a series of jagged gashes, is one name.

_Meredith_

"So you don't ever forget who's in charge," she hisses dangerously once I've managed to take in the gruesome wound. "Now _give me that device_."

I flinch away from her as she moves forwards, but at the same time my grip never loosens on the bomb. "N-no," I say again, although with considerably less force. The look in her eyes is telling me that the word carved into my calf is only the beginning of the pain she could cause.

For a moment, a murderous expression overcomes Meredith's previously grinning one, and I can feel the chill running through my veins. And once again, much like the day so long ago at the reapings, I know immediately what's going to happen, even though I can't express my hope that it doesn't. She's going to hurt me, torture me, _kill_ me. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Shockingly, the dangerous glare Meredith wore just a second ago disappears, to be replaced once more with her merciless grin. "Oh, Janaff," she says, idly tracing the new injuries she made and causing me to flinch as her nails skim over the lacerations in my skin. "You think I don't know what it is. But I do. It's yours and Perrin's failsafe. The thing you want to use to bring me down. I'm not stupid, you know." She stands, making sure to force the top of her axe even more onto my ankle, but considering the pain radiating off of my other leg, I barely notice. "Now, I don't know exactly what it is, but I know enough. And I _want_ it."

"You can't." Even though all I want to do is hand it over to her and run, I know the device has to stay with me. And as she glares back down at me from above, part of my mind begins to entertain the idea of setting it off right here, right now. Sure, I'd die in the blast, but at this point, it seems like a hard fate to avoid. I'd do it, too; if I was sure Meredith wouldn't be able to escape alive.

"Fine." I look up from the bomb to find her staring ruthlessly at me, and by the demonic look in her eyes I can tell that this is really it. "Well, if I can't have it," she begins, raising her axe above her head, "No one can."

I squeeze my eyes shut and flinch away, but I know there's no escaping this. Almost unconsciously, my hands find the cap of a flare, fingers tightening around it instantly at the idea of lighting the thing and finishing this. At least I could have said I tried. But even in my heart, I know I'd never be fast enough. This is really it.

Then I hear a loud _oof!_ as though the breath was just knocked out of someone, along with the sound of two bodies crashing into each other before they go falling to the floor. I open my eyes just in time to see the axe hit the ground in front of my feet. For a moment, all I can do is stare at it, uncomprehending. Then I turn my head and the reason for my continued existence becomes clear.

No more than a few steps away from me, Perrin and Meredith quickly regain their feet and are facing off against each other, a trident in one's hand while the latter holds her axe and stares at her district partner in shock. But she quickly recovers, and then the dangerous grin is back once more. "Well, Perrin! Nice of you to finally show up."

He doesn't bother to respond; instead, his sea green eyes dart over to me, and the message he's trying to convey is clear. _Get ready_.

Seemingly annoyed at her ally's lack of reply, Meredith wastes no further time in chatting, instead charging at him head on with a deadly swing of her axe. Perrin raises his trident quickly to block the blow, but the metal rod slides down the curved edge of the blade and hits the axe handle instead, allowing Meredith's weapon to get closer to Perrin's face than he expected. I can just see the thin line of blood it draws across his cheek before he quickly shoves the axe away.

"Aw, did Perrin get a cut?" Meredith asks, aiming a kick at his undefended side, which he just manages to dodge. "No wonder you couldn't even kill Achilles during the bloodbath," she continues. "You're _pathetic_." The insult is punctuated by another swing of her axe, but this time Perrin ducks the blow and aims to stab at her stomach with his trident. Before the three-pronged weapon can make contact, Meredith allows herself to fall into a backwards somersault, coming back into a standing position facing Perrin.

And closer to the hole.

Finally, I start to get over the shock of nearly being killed, and my brain starts to function again. If we can get Meredith stuck in the hole, the precious few seconds it takes her to get out might be all we need to set off the bomb and kill her. _And Rhine and Code, _my mind adds. So far there doesn't seem to be a plausible way to get them out before knocking Meredith into the crevice, but I push the thought from my mind. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Perrin seems to have had the same idea as I have, because he runs at Meredith with renewed strength, seemingly determined to drive her backwards and into the trap. Trident clashes against axe with a noise so grating and piercing it makes me flinch, but I force myself to forget about the fight going on around me as I concentrate on getting to my feet; I'll need to be as close as possible to ensure the bomb goes into the hole with Meredith. Though hopefully not close enough that I'm caught up in the blast.

"Ahh!" I grit my teeth as more blood rises to the surface of the slices on my leg; even just moving it is agonising work. _Get over it Janaff, _I tell myself, tuning out the noises from the fight in the background. _Mind over matter. Forget the pain, forget everything, just focus on getting up._ In an effort to stop the blood flow, I tear some of the material off of my other pant leg, already ripped courtesy of Meredith's whip, and use the dark fabric as a makeshift bandage to tie around my injury. It's not great, and it certainly doesn't ease the pain, but hopefully it'll at least slow the amount of blood I'm losing. I can't afford to get woozy and disoriented from blood loss now.

The sharp exhalation of breath reaches my ears and I turn my head in time to see Perrin parry another blow from Meredith, though his block is weaker than the last few. Most likely due to the blood now seeping through the jagged rip in his shirt; he takes a few steps away from his district partner and shifts the trident to the arm with the uninjured shoulder, but I know that Perrin, while skilled in most weapons he comes across, is far from ambidextrous. Meredith could finish him off right now.

But she doesn't. In fact, she seems entranced by the copious amount of her ally's blood now coating the axe in her hand. Slowly, she reaches out a finger to catch a drop before it falls, and brings it close to her lips. What happens next nearly causes me to throw up, as her tongues darts out and licks the crimson liquid off her hand.

"You're insane, Meredith," Perrin says, still managing to look disgusted despite his injured state.

She just smiles, her front teeth now tinted a disturbing red. "It's called blood lust, Perrin." She lashes out once more with her axe and he blocks, but she quickly twists her weapon around and the trident goes flying from the boy's hand. "All true Careers have it. And you," she adds, advancing towards him, axe at the ready, "Are no true Career."

_BOOM!_

It's as though time just . . . stops. At the sound of the cannon even Meredith freezes, her head shooting up like a dog sniffing its prey. Then, in the silence that follows, I hear a voice float up from the hole where he's trapped.

"Rhine? Rhine! Oh, God, Rhine . . ."

The shock on Perrin's face is evident as Code's words let him know that our two missing allies were in the crevice the entire time, something he never actually knew. It's lucky Meredith reacts to the cannon boom as well; she could have easily taken advantage of Perrin's surprise and finished the fight in the worst possible way.

"So she's finally gone," Meredith says, and disturbingly enough, she begins to laugh. Perrin's gaze shifts from the hole to her as her cackles ring out across the silent arena. "Well, I was wondering when she'd drop dead. Held up longer against the injuries I gave her than I thought." She turns around to face the hole and smiles widely. "Still feeling superior, Rhine? Still think you're so above everyone else, with your attitude and your smirk and-"

She never gets a chance to finish. Perrin sees the window of opportunity immediately and charges straight into his district partner, giving her a shove forward with all the strength he can muster and sending her careening into the trap below.

"Janaff, NOW!" Vaguely I hear Code's shout of surprise and fear as Meredith lands back in the hole with him, but I force myself to tune it out, to not think of my defenceless ally imprisoned in the fissure before me. Instead, I use all the strength I have left to shove myself into a standing position, nearly crying out and collapsing once more as weight falls on my injured leg._ Ignore it!_ my mind shouts fiercely, and I try hard to do just that. Instead, fumbling fingers find the cap of the flares and I rip them all off, keeping one in my grasp to light them all.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Meredith's shout comes from the hole below and the murderous edge in her voice erases all qualms of what I am about to do. Uttering a silent apology to Code, I grate the cap of the flare against the tops of all three, and it works just like a match. The sudden brightness is so startling I nearly drop the bomb, but instead, sweaty fingers grip the device and with all my might, I throw it straight into the hole.

My legs stumble back of their own accord, and I know I have to get away from the blast, but part of me needs to stay, to make sure it works. One, two . . .

"_You_." The voice is pure venom and an electric shock of terror courses through me as I see Meredith staring right at me; I don't know how she did it, but somehow she managed to jump for the edge of the hole and grab hold. Horrified, I watch as the muscles in her arms tense. She's going to pull herself out.

Three.

The explosion is a thousand times more deafening than Rhine's cannon, and even with my distance from the blast, I'm not entirely shielded as the wave of heat rushes over me, the mere force of the bomb throwing me back and off-balance. Somehow, I manage to make out a cannon fire over the cacophony, and then I'm up and stumbling through the forest as fast as my legs can carry me. The effect was even more powerful than I expected; thank goodness I'd only taken the powder from one mine. I can't imagine what it would have been like it the blast was stronger; at my proximity, I'd probably have died. Still, despite how well the bomb worked, I continue running and I don't stop. Because I only heard one cannon fire.

I don't know where Perrin is; I don't even know if he's alive. Probably; he wouldn't have been stupid enough to stay close to the hole after I ignited the flares. But I don't know how we'll meet up again and even if we do, I can't be sure of the result. I think it's safe to say that the Career Pack is finished; we'd already lost Cordelia to the dragon, Rowan's off somewhere else, Rhine's dead and Code must be too, knowing how close he was to the explosion and how he couldn't run without effectively tearing his hands in half. But Meredith . . . Meredith . . .

My pace quickens despite the protest in my leg and I start tearing desperately through the trees. What if she isn't dead? What if the blast didn't kill her? What if she's chasing after me right now, whip in one hand and axe in the other, ready to finish what she started in the longest and most painful way imaginable?

"No, no, no, no." I hit an overhanging branch out of my path without stopping, trying to outrun the living nightmare I can just imagine is chasing at my heels. "No, no, no, no, no!" My injured leg catches on an exposed tree root and I go flying into the dirt, glasses flying off my face and the mud muffling my cry as a new wave of blood drenches the makeshift bandage covering my calf. But I have to get up, I have to run, if she catches me . . .

_BOOM!_

I freeze as the sound rings out across the arena, and for a second I get the strangest feeling that someone else just let off another bomb. But I quickly shake the thought from my head; this is a more familiar noise, and one commonly heard in the Games. It was a cannon.

Without warning, I begin to laugh. Not like the insane cackles of Meredith, but huge, verging-on-hysterical gasps that could also be considered sobs of relief. There it is: the second cannon fire I was looking for. Maybe the explosion just gave her some terrible injuries that took a little longer to become fatal, but it doesn't matter: she's dead.

A small part of me starts to wonder if I've gone off the deep end myself, as I continue to lie in the dirt and let all of the stress and horror and adrenaline that flowed through me for the past few hours out in a series of overly relieved chuckles. Who knows how long I would have stayed there, had I not been interrupted by another loud sound blaring out through the arena. My ears are so sensitive thanks to the numerous blasts of noise they've been assaulted with in such a short period of time that it takes me a few seconds to distinguish the different notes. It finally clicks when the Capitol seal flashes through the night sky before me. The anthem is playing. And the faces of the dead are about to be shown.

I make no move to get up, instead continuing to stare through the gaps in the trees at the sky above. One of my hands finds my glasses in the dirt and I try to brush the muck off as best I can before repositioning them on my face. I can't miss this; I have to be entirely, 100% sure that Meredith is dead.

There should be four faces tonight: the three Careers that died and whoever's cannon it was that set off this whole mess in the first place. As Rhine's is the first to appear, it's safe to say Achilles made it through the day. Figures; I'm guessing he'll manage to get to the final eight, at least. Then comes Code's image, and despite my attempt at not feeling anything, my heart jerks in my chest. I killed him. He was one of the nicest out of all our allies and I killed him. But I'll have time to dwell on that later; right now, I push it from my mind as I prepare myself for the next face to be shown in the sky. Both tributes from Three were killed in the bloodbath on the first day; there's no one else this image could show but Meredith.

Which is why my eyes widen in horror as a girl with thick, curly brown hair is shown, a big number nine blazing next to her face before she disappears, followed by the girl from Twelve. Then the sky goes dark, and the anthem ends, leaving me in darkness until the familiar fairy mutts begin to appear. But their light does nothing to kill the fear threatening to overwhelm me.

"No!" Even as the word leaves my lips, I'm pressing both hands to my mouth, looking wildly around for anyone who might have heard it. No, not just anyone: _her_. She's alive. I don't know how, but she's alive, and she's going to find me and torture me until my throat goes raw from screaming.

_Oh, God._

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

I have to laugh as I watch not one, but _two _Careers faces appear in the sky, along with the images of the girls from Nine and Twelve. Admittedly, I'd been hoping to finish what I started concerning Imogen, but I'm guessing that the injuries I gave her eventually became fatal anyways. Honestly, I couldn't care less at this point; I have a far more entertaining target in mind.

And it seems I left just in time too. I knew the Careers wouldn't last much longer, but to see them fall into chaos this quickly, well, I kind of wish I'd been there for the fireworks show. Safe to say Janaff and Perrin's plan to take out Meredith didn't work; it's a wonder they're still alive. I'd honestly thought it'd be either them or the insane District 4 girl; now scenario reached my mind in which they might all survive. But they did.

Not that it matters. I'm sure the Pack has disbanded now, and that just makes it easier for me. Without the single most murderous alliance running around, I don't have to worry any of them might take my kill. And what a lovely, bloody, _slow_ kill it's going to be.

"Too bad I'm short-handed," I mutter quietly as I stride through the forest, looking up and hoping to catch the eye of any camera that might be near. "I could have given you quite a show."

Of course, there's no response; I can't imagine what anyone would say anyways. It's not like they could do anything to prevent the injury; sadly, that was a result of my own arrogance, and not a mistake I plan on making again. My one remaining hand tightens around the meat cleaver I hold as thoughts of _him_ enter my mind. Achilles. Oh, how I'd dearly love to pay him back for what he did to me . . . with interest. I can picture it so clearly in my mind; finger by finger, toe by toe, I'd reduce his hands and feet to nothing but useless stumps. Then I'd start hacking off the limbs, piece by piece. You have to go slowly or he won't feel it all, every single inch of sheer pain and agony and torture. And completely, utter pleasure.

Well, for me at least.

But first, I have another target, borne out of a long withstanding grudge. I've waited two years to get back at Gwen, and now she's finally going to feel the full extent of my merciless, unrestrained wrath.

So caught up in my gleeful thoughts of what I'll do when I get my hands on my district partner, I don't even notice the silver parachute until it literally floats in front of my face. _What?_ Cautiously, I shove my knife into my belt with its partner and reach out to grab the silken material between my fingers. A sponsor gift? I haven't gotten anything since the Games began, and I'd assumed that I wouldn't be receiving any sort of present throughout the rest of my days in the arena. After all, I hadn't really tried to appear likeable to the Capitol. I had at first, with my interview angle, but my last words hardly left room for any doubt that I was not the friendly, joking tribute I'd appeared to be. Well, who knows; maybe there's somebody out in the Capitol who enjoys helping out the more sadistic tributes.

And that seems to be exactly the case as I carefully open the box attached to the parachute. It takes a moment for me to understand, and I pluck the silver object out of the container still none the wiser as to what it might be. _Definitely a weapon of some sort, _I think to myself. _But what-_

Oh.

Oh, yes.

Slowly, I move the round, cylindrical part of the device over to my butchered arm, sliding it down overtop the bandage. Even through the thin layer of cloth, I can feel the coolness of the metal against my skin, and it's a welcome change to the white-hot pain of my injury. Slowly, my fingers close the two clasps on either side of the object, and then I just stand and stare at the thing that now sits on the spot where once there was a hand. For a moment, I'm speechless in shock; but soon after, I begin to laugh.

_Better watch out now, Gwen, _I think to myself, setting off again with renewed vigor, though every few seconds my eyes dart to the shining silver weapon at my wrist. _It's a whole new game now. I'm no longer handicapped; I'm more improved than I could have ever hoped for._

Now, I am the weapon. Because attached to my wrist, where my hand used to be, now glimmers a deadly, murderous hook.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

They thought they could kill me. They thought they could overpower me.

They were fools.

Everything has disappeared except the rage. The burning, ever-present rage. I can't even feel the pain from the injuries I know must be there. My legs suffered the brunt of the explosion; I was unable to pull myself out of the hole in time. But I can't even feel them.

Maybe they're no longer there.

Even if they're not, though, they don't bleed like most wounds would. I guess that's due to the fire from the explosion, which would have burned what was left of them to crisps. Didn't Janaff burn Rowan's injury, to ensure he wouldn't bleed out?

_Janaff_. He, if anything, is the only reason I'm continuing. I want him dead. No, more than that; _I_ want the pleasure of killing him. Him and Perrin. And every other tribute still alive in these Games. They will all be my victims. No longer will I be held back by weak links. Now, _I_ hold the power. My legs may be gone, my axe along with them, but I have my whip and I have my rage. This fiery, destructive rage, invading every crevice of my body like an infection. An infection I crave. It's enough to drag me from the depths of unconsciousness, and slowly, I return to the world of the living.

But not for long. What I mean to say is, it won't be the world of the living for long. Because I am going to find every tribute in this arena, every last child hiding away in fear or fighting for their survival, and I'm going to finish them. And then, when he's all alone, when his mind snaps from fear as the darkness and emptiness envelops him, when he finds himself with no one else to turn to for protection, then I'll come for Janaff.

Slowly, I stretch creaking, aching arms out across the forest floor. And then, I begin to crawl.


	42. A Lie for a Lie, a Truth for a Truth

_**Figured it'd be appropriate to update today, since it's the 200th anniversary of Grimm's fairytales :)**_

_**HUUUUUGE thanks to LeviAntonius for designing this story's new cover! Isn't it beautiful? :) Without it, you'd still be stuck with randomly googled images, or worse, my own terrible art. Trust me, I've piacked up a pencil many times with the intents of trying to draw something for this story or the characters or whatnot. I can't do visual art :) But LeviAntonius can! Thank you!**_

_**New poll is up! Don't visit it until AFTER you read this chapter, and vote soon! Next chapter should be up a lot sooner, so I won't be waiting too long for the results :)**_

* * *

><p><em>In District 9 . . .<em>

**Rachel Torrini**

I'm in daycare when I see Mommy again. Grandma, Grandpa, Daddy, Uncle Jack and Aunty Enid have all been working extra hard. To get more money, they told me. So they can buy Mommy a gift. Me and Aunty Karmin and Uncle Matt and Uncle Marty are too young to stay home by ourselves, so Grandma dropped us off at the daycare. It's kind of fun; I get to see lots of my friends there. I also got to play with Sammy again, but she wasn't as nice as she used to be. I told her I wanted Mommy back and she said her sister had gone off to play the same game Mommy was playing. Her sister didn't come back, and she says Mommy won't either.

I don't play with Sammy anymore.

I do play with Karmin and Matt and Marty, plus Fusi, Char, and even Poiran (even though he always cheats at stuff). And we're just playing the best game ever when one of the men in white comes inside and tells Ms Burns, the lady who runs the daycare, that she had to turn on the TV now. He says it's important and we all need to watch, but he used a different word. Manda . . . Mandit . . . I don't know.

So we all sit in front of the TV to watch. The man stays as well. I was hoping I'd get to see Mommy, but she isn't there. Instead, it's the scary monsters. Everyone else uses a different word, but I just call them the monsters. Because they are. Some of them aren't so scary, like the boy with the glasses or the other boy who has the cool round thingy with the beads, but a lot of them are. But some of them give me nightmares. Like the blonde girl. And the boy who painted Mommy red.

At least the scary boy isn't there this time. But the girl is, and she seems to like painting too. Only she does it wrong. When the boy did it to Mommy, he used the swishy strokes Enid taught me to do. But the girl on the TV is using a sharp, silver paintbrush that the boy with the cool round thingy holds, and he doesn't look too happy that she's using his stuff. Plus she jabs at the other girl, the mean-looking one. And the paintbrush goes into her. I don't think paintbrushes are supposed to do that.

That's when Sammy starts to cry. Really, really cry, while she shouts something about her sister when she played her game. It almost makes me feel bad for stopping playing with her. Ms Burns comes over and starts trying to calm Sammy down, but it doesn't work. Then she goes to take her out of the room, but the man in white says we need to stay and watch. He says it's the 'law.' I don't know what it means, but Ms Burns stops trying to take Sammy out right away, and just goes back to giving her hugs and patting her hair. Sammy keeps on crying though, and some of the other kids start to too, once the scary monster girl uses something big and sharp-looking to attack the boy whose paintbrush she stole. The colour red starts to appear everywhere, and all around me kids are crying and yelling and I just want to go home, I just want to go home, I just want to go home . . .

But then I see Mommy. It's really quick, and most kids would have missed it, but Grandpa says I have really good eyes. On the screen, it shows the boy with the glasses running through the forest. He keeps saying "no," but I don't know who he's talking too. Everyone else around him is gone. Then he trips, and there's a giant _BOOM!_, like the kind I've heard before on the TV. I guess the boy thinks it's funny, 'cause he starts laughing. It's a weird laugh though, not like the kind people make when something funny happens. It doesn't sound right.

We only see him for a bit though, because then the TV shows us the spot with the hole and the big tree again, where all the fire and loud noises and the big explosion went off earlier. Inside the hole are these two little black figures, kind of like dolls except they don't really look human, and out of nowhere a giant h . . . h . . . hovercraft, I think it's called, appears and shoots a claw down to grab them. Then the TV zooms in on something else lying near one of the trees, and I nearly cry when I think it's the monster girl. I don't want to see her again. But then I realise it can't be, 'cause if it was a girl, then she'd have legs. But she doesn't. So it can't be the scary girl, which is good.

_Then_ they show Mommy. She's lying in the same spot I saw her in last time, in the place with the nice boy and the little girl. The little girl is asleep, but the nice boy is looking around the forest, not facing Mommy. The TV shows Mommy more close up, and she looks so still and peaceful, she doesn't even look like she's moving at all. She must be sleeping then. My Mommy's so pretty when she sleeps.

But then something weird happens. The hovercraft thingy appears, and the claw reaches out and grabs Mommy, right around her waist. Her head and arms droop as she's lifted in the air, and the nice boy doesn't even notice until she's almost reached the hovercraft. His mouth drops open and I think he's started to shout something, which wakes the little girl up, and then they're both yelling at Mommy, and I don't know why. Nobody should yell at Mommy. But I can't even tell what they're saying, because all of a sudden Karmin and Matt and Marty start crying a lot, and everyone's moving to hug them and me, and Ms Burns is patting my hair like she did with Sammy and I don't know why, 'cause Sammy was sad and I'm not. Does the claw thingy mean Mommy's coming home? Is she coming back?

My birthday wish finally came true!

* * *

><p><strong>Noah Maggio<strong>

I almost didn't show up. Imogen's funeral, and I'd almost been selfish enough to skip it.

Just the thought of her makes me want to break down; her thick, beautiful brown curls, those blue eyes I used to get so lost in, the smiles that could light up the whole district. How could someone so full of happiness and love, so deserving of life, be just . . . gone? It doesn't make sense; it doesn't make any sense. And I refuse to accept it.

Which is why I was so unwilling to go to the funeral. Seeing her there, lying cold and alone in the plain, wooden box she'd been shipped back to us in, I didn't think I'd be able to bear it. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that we still had her to mourn over. After the explosion caused by the boy from Eight, the bodies of both District 2 tributes were barely recognisable. And of course, there wouldn't have been anything left of the District 1 female to send home. But I don't care. No matter how loved they might have been by their family, how amazing or kind or skilled they were, they could never amount to anything next to her. Next to Imogen.

Imogen, who, for all I knew, could still be wearing the ring I gave her on the day of the reapings. My stomach twists just at the idea and I have to fight to calm myself; her father's in the middle of his speech and to lose it now would be inconsiderate. This is a moment to suffer in silence, as many others seem to be doing; most of Imogen's many siblings are crying openly, yet quietly, and even her mother can't quite hold the tears back in front of her children. Only Rachel, braced against Awen's hip, is dry-eyed. No one's yet thought of a way to explain to her the magnitude of what has happened; for now, we've all just been going with the explanation that Imogen's gone off somewhere far away to do something very important, and she loves us all very much but she just can't come home right now.

Oh, God, I miss her.

At least they keep the casket closed. I don't know what I would have done if I'd caught sight of her, looking so frail and helpless in the coffin. And I don't know what Rachel would have done either.

But she's too smart for a five-year-old, and too smart for her own good. After the ceremony, I stay frozen in place, unable to take my eyes off the spot where they buried Imogen. I can't help but think of her, now stuck under the ground for eternity, with no one to comfort her. And part of me just wants to get down on my hands and knees and dig and dig and dig until I find her, and then I'll stay with her. Something I couldn't do when she went into the Games.

"Thank you for coming, Damon." I barely register the wavering voice of Imogen's mother as she nods in acknowledgement towards the dark-haired, thirteen-year-old standing alone near the edges of the graveyard, as though he's not entirely sure whether he's intruding or not.

He just nods back, and I'm surprised to see a few tears in his eyes as well; I don't know who this is and can't even remember if he knew Imogen. Imogen . . .

"You came to his," the kid says in return, taking a deep, shuddering breath before turning to go. And that's when I place him. Damon McAwny, brother of District 9's male tribute, who died in the bloodbath. I was so worried for Imogen at that point that nothing could tear me away from a TV screen, but vaguely I recall Imogen's family leaving for the young tribute, Carlisle's funeral. I guess they sort of knew the family, at least enough to know there'd be no help from the boys' father when it came to the ceremony.

And then comes the bone-chilling, heart-wrenching cry of "Mommy!"

"Rachel, dear, what is it?" Awen asks, but I can tell by the worry in her eyes that she's already guessed what her granddaughter is thinking.

"That was the boy from before," Rachel says, pointing a finger at Damon, paused in his retreat. "And we saw him here too, and there was another box! And the boy inside it was picked to play the game too." She's as intelligent as her mother, picking up on the patterns like that. Damon had opened the coffin at the funeral, to place some memories from his brother's childhood inside, and I guess Rachel had see. "Does that mean . . . is Mommy in the box?"

Tears spring back up to eyes so like her daughter as Awen looks helplessly at her husband, but he's also at a loss for words. What do you say to a child who's too young to understand the idea of death?

Almost unconsciously, I move forward. All of the grief-stricken thoughts and cries leave my mind, replaced by a dull, white fog as I silently take Rachel from Awen's arms and, without a word, start the long walk back to the Torrini Manor.

"Where's Mommy?" Rachel asks on the way there, and I can feel my heart constrict at her words, as though someone's slowly squeezing it in an iron grip. My voice, however, comes out surprisingly steady.

"You've been told that, Rachel. She has to do something very important, and she won't be back for a while."

"How long is that?"

I sigh, the weight of so much grief dragging me down and making it difficult to lift my feet. "A long time."

"Was Mommy in the box like the other boy?"

I think back to yesterday, the awful, awful day at work. We'd been forced to stop in our tracks thanks to a supposed "big, important event" going on in the Hunger Games. Schools, factories; everything was shut down so people could watch the screen. I thought they only put everything on hold like that for things like feasts, but apparently the breakup of the Career Pack was just as important. 110 of us were forced to stand in the weapons plant and watch on a huge screen as the violence unrolled before our eyes. It was gruesome and it was beyond horrible, but I couldn't bring myself to be as disgusted as some of those around me. What was important was that Imogen was safe.

Until the third cannon went off. It sparked confusion even in the Capitol, you could tell from the way the TV jumped around the arena trying to find the third fatality. We'd all assumed it was the crazed girl from Four, until the camera got close enough to show the rise and fall of her chest.

And that's when it finally hit them, and they jumped to Imogen. At first, I merely felt the same worry that coursed through me every time I saw her looking so frail and vulnerable with her injuries. But then the hovercraft appeared.

I denied it, at first. I still deny it sometimes, even now. She just . . . she can't be gone, can she? How can someone as important as her vanish so quickly, so unnoticeably? In another eighty years, people might not even remember her name. She'll just be another faceless tribute murdered in the massacre that is the Hunger Games. All of the dead children will be.

The door to the house is locked when I reach it, but I've been coming and going so much in the past few years I've known Imogen – and even more so in the past few weeks where she's been gone – that I was given an official key to the manor. Rachel's silent the entire time as we head inside and up the stairs to her bedroom, not even complaining that I failed to answer her question from before. But as I wait for her to get into her pajamas before tucking her into bed, she can't help but ask another.

"Did Mommy win the game?"

I pause as the question hits me, reverberating around inside my head, and my first instinct is to answer no, she didn't, she lost the Games and I lost her. But then other thoughts and memories occur to me: the District 10 boy, traumatised over both the deaths of his district partner and the girl he inadvertently killed; the Career girl from Four, completely insane now thanks to the pressures of the arena. And District 9's four previous victors: Trigure, Aetomn, Newclea and Shute. I've barely even seen any of them around the district, but I've heard stories of what the arena's done to them, how it's affected their minds. Perhaps worse are the rumours about what the president forces them to do in the Capitol, and the acts committed to keep them in line.

Is that winning? No, I'd never consider it to be. Nor would I consider being killed the preferable option, but it begs the question as to whether living and suffering is better than death and freedom. I've never even thought about it until now, and the answer is impossible to find. But, in some ways, I guess Imogen really is in a better place.

So all I end up saying is, "Yes." The true answer isn't anywhere near as simple, but it's not like I can explain everything to a five-year-old, especially one who just lost her mother. And sometimes, it's nice to keep things simple. If I think about it too much, my head starts to hurt and my heart aches with loss.

Rachel smiles happily. "Good." I can hear the rest of her family coming inside and rise to go, but she holds her arms out towards me. "Tell me a story?"

Her words bring memories that pain me to see, but almost in a good way; memories of nights long past when Imogen and I would sit together on Rachel's little bed, coming up with wild tales that normally ended in peals of laughter, the stories never having made any sense in the first place. It was fun . . . beyond that. They were priceless moments I took for granted, ones I'll never be able to get back. I open my mouth to tell Rachel not now, that I don't feel up to it, but she's looking up at me so expectantly with eyes as dark and blue as her mother's, and I find myself unable to turn away. A tad reluctant, I take my spot on her bed wrack my mind desperately for a short story to tell, something that'll get me out of here quickly so that I can . . . do what? Mourn? Rage? I honestly can't fathom any sort of activity that's going to make me feel better at this moment in time.

But then the images come to mind: Imogen, making pancakes on the day of the reapings, oblivious to the batter across her cheek and my nervousness at the thought of what I so wanted to ask her. Imogen, tears of joy in her eyes as I proposed, forgetting for a moment her worry at the Games out of pure bliss. Imogen, looking so beautiful in a flowing blue dress, golden crown perched atop her auburn curls as she sat herself down for the interviews. And I know what story I'm going to tell.

"All right, Rachel," I say, and she giggles excitedly at the prospect of a story. "I'm going to tell you fairytale." _Because life needs more of them._ "It has a beautiful princess," _more beautiful than words_, "Who faces many problems." _Too many to count_. "But don't worry; in the end, she pulls through," _because she's the strongest woman I knew, _"With the help of her prince charming." _Who, in reality, was absolutely powerless to save her. _"And they both live happily ever after."

_I wish._

"Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Sleeping Beauty . . ."

* * *

><p><em>In the arena . . .<em>

**Catherine Street, District 6 Female**

Independence is of huge importance in my family, and throughout most of District 6. We're taught at a young age to care for ourselves, especially in the areas of medicine and well-being, but also other, smaller aspects of life. I guess that's another reason I was so surprised when I got to know my district partner a bit; Six kids aren't usually sheltered, literally or figuratively, by their parents, especially not up to the age of fifteen.

And it's for this reason that I have to leave. At least, I keep telling myself it's the reason. _You feel bad, _I repeat continuously to myself as I tiptoe across the grass to grab my discarded bow. _You feel bad because you have nothing more to offer to the alliance. You're just slowing him down with your smaller legs and lesser endurance, and there's no longer a way for you to repay him. That's it. You just don't want to depend on someone when you have nothing to give them in return._

Would that it were true. I'd settle for just being able to convince myself of the lie. But I can't. The falsehood weighs heavily upon my heart, just another burden in the pile of sorrows, losses, hardships and trials that have started accumulating ever since I rode that metal plate up the tower to begin the Games. It started with all the violence and gore in the bloodbath, where I watched the boy from Nine die along with all the others who never made it past day one. And now, Imogen's death is the source of my worry, sadness, guilt and shame.

I was supposed to help her. That was the whole reason I was allowed into the alliance in the first place. I grew up in the medicine district, I'm supposed to have 'healing powers'. And for a while there, I thought I did. But it wasn't enough. So now, every time a memory comes to mind of days long past, when I allowed my eyes to glaze over during a school lecture or neglected to listen to my parents as they instructed me in some sort of medical procedure, every time I think of something like that, I can't stop myself from feeling the waves of remorse that wash over me, carrying with them the idea that had I listened, had I paid attention, I might have learnt something that could have saved Imogen. The image of my parents often comes to mind, shaking their heads sadly at the TV screen as I tried with clumsy fingers to patch my ally up, mouths uttering words of advice that will continue to go by unheard. _No, Catherine, you have to put pressure on that wound. That's not the proper way to wrap up such a terrible injury. You can't use that needle, you're not 100% sure that it's sterile, and if you dig it into your friend's skin, it could cause an infection even worse than the harm she's already suffering from. _

_An infection that, gone unchecked, might cause her to die._

I knew the medicine at the Career base was only a powerful painkiller; I'd spotted it during the chaos of the bloodbath and years of being around the stuff had taught me to identify it with ease. It would hold back the agony Imogen was in, but nothing more. And I still allowed myself to put faith in it as a permanent solution. I even misled Achilles in the hopes that, if someone besides me believed in the lie, it would somehow make the whole thing true. But I think I understand now. I may still be twelve, but I don't think I'm the same naïve child who volunteered to save her friend. I guess in some ways, it's good that I was so ignorant to the horrors of the Games before; had I known what they'd be like, I can't say for certain whether I'd actually have offered myself up to participate instead of allowing them to take Dhara.

My hand freezes inches from the bow as my ally rolls over, muttering something under his breath as he does so. I can't even remember the last time he slept, so I was assuming that when we finally did take a break, he'd be out like a light. Though by the looks of it, I couldn't have been more wrong. Then again, it makes sense; if I was high up on the Careers' radar, I don't think I'd ever sleep well again.

Just the thought of the bloodthirsty alliance causes my paralysed hand to start trembling. The faces of two Pack members appeared in the sky last night alongside Imogen and the girl from 12. If I hadn't been so devastated over the loss of Imogen, I might have felt something as I watched Rhine's smirking image disappear forever. Joy that she was dead, maybe? Worry that even tributes who seem the strongest can be killed in the arena? I'll never know. Every time I try and think about emotions regarding her death, my thoughts immediately jump to Imogen and I find myself awash in a tidal wave of despair and misery.

Even now, it's hard to stop myself from sinking back into that same ocean of sadness, but I force all thoughts of my old ally from my mind. Just like back at the tower, I only have one shot at this, and I can't afford to miss it.

It's not that I want to leave Achilles. It's just . . . I can't stay. I want to believe I'm doing this with only his best interests in mind, but I can't convince myself of that lie any more than I could of the one regarding the medicine. The longer I stay here, the more my shame and guilt grows; I have nothing more to offer the alliance now that Imogen is gone, no need to use my medical skills since the gash across Achilles's chest has been healing nicely. And then there's the fact that I can't keep up with my taller, stronger ally. I don't know why he's so determined to keep moving, but I can hazard a guess; he's worried about the Careers, maybe, or he wants to try and outrun the devastating memories of Imogen. Both could be valid and both probably are, to some degree. One of the only true facts left in the arena.

But whatever his motives are, one thing's for sure: I'm slowing him down. After taking some time to fully realise what had just happened after the hovercraft appeared out of nowhere and snatched Imogen heartlessly from our midst, Achilles started walking and I ran to keep up with him. And ran. And ran. And ran. Never once did he show signs of stopping, and I think he'd nearly forgotten I was with him, he was so caught up in his own thoughts. It was only when I couldn't take another step and had voiced my need for a break that he'd finally registered my presence, and reluctantly agreed to stop. It wasn't the tone in which he spoke that made me believe he was disappointed we couldn't keep going – Achilles is too nice to openly say something like that – but I could see it in his eyes. I was slowing him down, a burden he most certainly did not want to carry and protect with the threat of the Careers looming over his head. He'd never admit it though, even after I'd explained everything to him. How I couldn't keep up, didn't have his endurance, and maybe it'd help for us to part ways. But he'd have none of it; after all, how do you convince the person who refused to allow anyone to volunteer for him because he didn't want an innocent child to die in his place that he should end the alliance to help himself? I could be blind, mute, deaf and without working legs, and I bet Achilles still wouldn't abandon me. Which makes this all the harder.

Fortunately, my ally doesn't continue to stir, and goes back to what's probably the most relaxed sleep he can manage when in an arena full of death traps and people trying to kill him. As silently as it can, my hand completes its journey downwards to wrap around the sturdy, wooden grip of the bow before lightly pulling it up off the ground and placing it in the familiar position over my shoulder. A few more motions of my other hand, and the quiver is back where it should be as well. Having grabbed what I came for, I turn a take a few quiet steps away from my dozing ally, but I can't resist one last peek over my shoulder. He looks so peaceful in sleep, honey-coloured eyes unseeing behind closed, relaxed lids, hands draped casually over his stomach, for once releasing their hold on both his trident and his sword. It's actually kind of hard to believe he's eighteen, he looks so young right now. And despite myself, I can feel a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips thanks to the tranquility of the scene before me.

But the grin doesn't last, and neither does the fleeting feeling of contentment; all at once, the full force of what I'm trying to do hits me and I nearly stagger back, unprecedented fear suddenly enveloping me. What am I doing? Who in their right mind would leave an alliance with what is probably the most powerful tribute next to the Careers? Do I honestly want to leave just because I don't like the feeling of dragging someone down?

Yes; as stupid as it sounds, yes. But that's not the only reason. I'm _scared_. What remains of the Careers are probably out there hunting for Achilles right now and I'm absolutely terrified of getting caught up in a fight against them. My ally and I, we have very different strategies; I've already discovered that if I'm quiet enough and stay hidden, I can go unnoticed by other tributes. But Achilles, 6'5", muscular, wielding two weapons, doesn't need to cower in bushes and scurry up trees. He's pretty much guaranteed to win in a battle against most, if not all, the other tributes left in this arena. But fighting them _and_ protecting me, something I'm sure he'd do automatically? Then, his chances drop drastically, and I don't want to be the cause, even indirect, of a death in the arena. I already feel like I failed Imogen. One more person I know dying and I might just break.

_So that's it, then,_ I think to myself, biting my lip as I slowly begin to move away from my sleeping ally. _This being for him, it's a lie. You're frightened and you don't want to feel any more pain of guilt or loss. That's why you want to leave._

I wish I could deny it, could run from it like I run from my ally as I dart away into the bushes, but I just can't. It seems that, no matter what you do in the arena, no matter how much you lie to yourself and make up stories, in the end, the truth always comes back to haunt you.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

_It's the first time I saw him, bursting through the trees and brandishing a knife menacingly in one hand. I wasn't scared at the time, but I should have been; proof of the damage he could cause was evident in the huge injury across the wolf's – which would later become my Niko – leg, bleeding profusely with a knife still half stuck in his leg._

The weight of my own knife feels heavier in my hands somehow, but that doesn't stop me from hurling it towards the tall oak a few metres away from me. The dagger's barely even pierced the bark before I run over and snatch it back up.

_The day of the reapings, just after he'd been called. I'd acted so superior, so smug, all too happy to see the maniac get sent to his death. But then Tammi read my name off the slip and our expressions changed. He grinned at me and I quickly refocused my eyes into a glare, but not before I felt the faintest trickle of something flow through me. Fear . . ._

The knife hits the tree again, just to the right of the vertical slash where my first throw landed. But that's not enough – it has to hit that spot _exactly_, it has to be perfect! I can't miss. Missing means failure, and in the Hunger Games, failure means death.

_During training, the obvious threat present in the air as he brought his foot down to smash my token._

I cross the familiar ground yet again to retrieve my knife, though I can't help but notice that this time, the hand reaching for the metal hilt is shaking.

_The interviews, when he'd promised to cut out my heart and paint the arena with my blood._

Ignoring the trembling in my fingers, I stride back over to my original spot, trying to prepare for another throw.

_And now he's here, knives out and that menacing smirk plastered on his face, preparing to butcher me like he's done so many times before with animal carcasses._

"Ahh!"

I can't help the shout from escaping as I fling the blade through the air, but whether my outburst is from fear or frustration, I can't tell. _Frustration, _I think to myself anyways, _not fear. You are _not_ afraid._

_You're not._

The unwanted figure of my murderous district partner is still hovering in front of me, and I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I have to forget Rowan; that, or I'll go insane. It takes a few seconds for the image to vanish, and only then do I finally realise how off my last throw was. I can't even see the knife anywhere in the tree; must have sailed right past it and into the forest beyond.

I let out a small sigh. _Great_. The sky darkened a while ago, night settling once more over the arena, and there aren't any of those bizarre light mutts close enough to be of any use. Still, I'd take wandering around in a shadowy forest over stumbling through pitch black cave any day.

It's only been a day and a bit since we took that harrowing bed ride out of the underground tunnels, but the mood of our little group has definitely improved since then. At least, the boys seem better off. And why wouldn't they be? It's not like they have deranged district partners, hell-bent on torturing and killing them as soon as they get the slightest chance . . .

_Enough,_ I think firmly, pushing aside a bush as the search for my knife continues. Those kinds of thoughts have been of little help to me in the arena. On the contrary, if anything, they've made me even edgier, and have slowly been pushing me away from my allies. I've been trying to be at least decent to be around, but I'm afraid I might have failed miserably in that regard. I just can't help it; my mother has always taught me to be a strong woman and hide my fears – the only time I ever saw her show any sign of weakness was at the reapings when my name was called. Everyone hides their worries in different ways – through anger, false cheerfulness or arrogance. I pretend I'm above it all, that I'm too good for both fears and everything else around me. And yes, admittedly, I _do _believe that's true sometimes; but in my personal opinion, I think there are worse character flaws than having a bit of a superiority complex.

For example, you could be bloodthirsty, unforgiving, and entirely without mercy.

I stop scanning the ground for my blade and lean against a nearby tree, allowing the familiar smells of the forest to offer me some comfort. Rowan's presence in my thoughts and fears has become an increasingly large problem, and I need to stop holding my breath waiting for him to find me. I'll be _fine_; I'm better off than most people in the arena. I have allies, I have a weapon, I even have a nice shelter for the night. Providing the house isn't rigged with Gamemaker traps, of course. Which it probably is.

Actually, _house_ might not exactly be the right word for it. Cottage is a better fit. We found it this afternoon, while trekking through the forest, still determinedly moving away from where I guessed the Career tower was located (the cave had messed around with my sense of direction). At first, all three of us were apprehensive; a small, cozy, seemingly perfect building in the middle of the Hunger Games arena? _That_ isn't suspicious. But after a long talk with Taralo, our resident fairytale expert, Lore, ever the impulsive one, decided to check it out. After all, if it really was a trap, it was highly unlikely the Gamemakers would just let us walk away whether we went inside or not.

Though the longer we examined the cottage, the less menacing it seemed. Aside from a few simple pieces of furniture and seven beds (which we weren't particularly excited to see after our little adventure in the cave), we hadn't found anything that might suggest the place was dangerous. Admittedly, everything in the house seemed rather small, as though made to fit a child or someone particularly short, but otherwise, there was nothing at strange. Except when you considered that it was a seemingly normal house in the middle of a couldn't-be-less-normal arena.

But it did make for a good spot to camp, so that was where we chose to rest our weary feet and have a dinner of edible plants and nuts. It sounds meagre, and a week ago I would have turned my nose up at it, but everything's changed since then. After three days in a cave with nothing to eat but rats, anything seems delicious.

Especially considering I could finally go back to being a vegetarian, though it did nothing to ease the small well of guilt and shame within me. The deed was done, and there's no way for me to take back the smelly, rubbery pieces of rat that passed by my lips to settle in the hollows of my empty stomach. And the worst part was, I _craved _it. Sure, the food was alien to me, and it had caused a sickening feeling to run through my digestive system because of it, but afterwards I realised that my body _wanted _this meat, _needed_ it. Protein is vital to remain healthy, and back in District 7, my mother had come up with all sorts of ways to provide us with the necessary nutrients without destroying the life of an animal in the process. But the Games are in no way my home, and beans and chickpeas don't grow on trees. I'd been going without an important part of my diet since this thing started, and it wasn't possible to stop my body from reacting with longing once it got some protein back into its system. But I have to ignore it, ignore the energy it gave me; my mother raised me not to be a savage and I need to stay that way. Or I'm no better than the likes of Rowan.

I don't have to worry about turning into a complete, heartless psycho yet though, thankfully, because when I continue to look around for my knife and find it stuck in the side of a bloody, dead rabbit, I still feel the pang of sadness in my chest as I run to the animal. But along with the sorrow comes the shame, worse than before. _I'm changing into a monster already. I've eaten an animal, and now I'm killing them without necessity. Oh God, I'm . . ._

Wait. Unfortunately, yes, I'm guilty of consuming meat, but murdering the rabbit? I've walked pretty far from the tree I was practicing on, and my throwing arm isn't super-humanly powerful; there's no way the knife could have flown all the way over here and killed the animal by my force alone. It would have landed on the ground back towards the tree, and judging by how deep the wound is, the rabbit couldn't have managed to impale itself. What's going-

Cold steel presses so swiftly against my throat that I don't even react until a second later. And by that time, I'm lucky I manage to stop myself from jumping too much; any large, sudden movement and my throat would be sliced open effortlessly. My breath catches in my throat and I close my eyes, desperately hoping it's Lore and Taralo playing some sort of cruel prank. Even one of the usual Careers would be preferable. But my allies wouldn't be this mean, and any usual tribute from 1, 2 and 4 would just kill me without even stopping to think about it. It could be one of the other participants still here in the Games, but if it's anyone unaccustomed to killing, they'd hold their blade hesitantly. There's no trace of reluctance in the unwavering knife as it presses hard enough to draw a few droplets of blood from the cut it creates. Beside me, someone laughs, and my eyes shoot open. I know that laugh. I know this person; knew from the very moment the blade was forced against my neck, though I want so badly to be wrong. And even as the knife circles around my throat, indicating movement by the person holding the weapon, I'm still hoping that I'm wrong, I'm wrong, please, _please_ let me be wrong . . .

And despite my attempts to remain cold, despite my superiority, I can't quite mask the flicker of fear in my eyes as Rowan comes around to face me, smiling all the while.


	43. Snow White and the Huntsman

_**Wow. I think this has been the hardest chapter to write yet, for numerous reasons. Really, terribly sorry if it's not my best work; towards the end there, I just wanted it done.**_

_**This is the goriest chapter in the story so far, and will probably remain as such. Seriously, after reading over this chapter, I had thoughts on bumping this story's rating up to M. I might just be paranoid with ratings, but you have been warned. This chapter is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.**_

_**On a happier note, happy new year everybody! And congrats on surviving 2012 :) Hope everyone has a wonderful 2013!**_

_**One last, self-advertising note: I've been in the process of attempting to write a novel, and would be hugely grateful for some feedback on it. Just click on the link on my profile for my fictionpress account, and you'll find the story there (the working title is Chronicles of Daetaryn). Feedback much appreciated :)Oh, and new poll for this story is up! Vote for your favourite characters!**_

_**Now, hope you enjoy the showdown that was always meant to be! Sorry if it's not the greatest**_

* * *

><p><strong>Rowan Hollows, District 7 Male<strong>

The butcher's knife dances across flesh once more, augmenting the metallic scent of blood that now hangs thick like a fog in the air. The practiced strokes I use are so like the ones my father taught me years ago, but unlike cutting up slabs of meat to sell, the result of these slices is _infinitely_ more satisfying.

"Ah, ah, ah," I say, smirking as my fallen victim makes to crawl towards her own weapon, still shoved in the rabbit carcass where I'd positioned it. Gwen already makes for a pathetic enough picture as it is, three deep gashes already present across her back, scarlet blood standing out vividly against her crisp, white shirt and equally pale skin. But add to that her feeble attempt at grabbing her knife to defend herself, and most people would just cry and the sight. _Most_ people. I just want to laugh.

Which is exactly what I do, and my chuckles ring through the otherwise silent forest as I deliver a swift kick to Gwen's head, discouraging any further attempts at arming herself. However, my snickers fade into nothingness once she recovers from the blow, and turns to glare at me with all the force her agonised state can muster. It isn't much. But it's enough to make my blood boil.

I've dreamt of this day for two years, two full years, imagined every injury I would deal her and every cry of pain she'd make in return. But she hasn't made a sound yet; not one sound, and she _still _insists on trying to appear defiant when she's stuck in what is _clearly_ a hopeless situation. There's no getting out of this; she can't escape it. So why won't she _scream_?

She does, however, make a small cry of surprise as I shove my knife into my belt before yanking her up by the collar of her now bloodstained shirt and slamming her into the nearest tree. A shower of pine needles rains down on us both, a few sticking to the trail of blood that runs from Gwen's forehead to her chin, and the sight nearly makes me explode. There's _so much blood_. And she still. Won't. _Scream_.

Worse, now that she's gotten over her initial shock, she's back to glaring at me with those piercing brown eyes. It's just, just unacceptable. She should be begging me for mercy, like the little girl from 3, or at the very least screaming until her throat goes raw. This defiance has got to end . . . And, with a jolt, I realise that I have all the time in the world to put a stop to it. The Gamemakers aren't going to interfere, not when I'm giving them such a show already, and it doesn't seem like Gwen's allies are going to come to her rescue anytime soon. I can literally do this for _hours_. My grin begins to grow back at the thought, and _finally_ I see the hint of fear in Gwen's eyes as she watches me smile. At least she's smart enough to know that when this expression overcomes my features, nothing good can come of it.

Still, I've got to get rid of that superior resolve of hers if I'm going to really have some fun.

"You know, fear's a good look for you," I say, smirking as I tap the tip of my hook under her chin, and I'm delighted to see, not a shiver exactly, but a slight tremble run through her. It was hilarious to watch her eyes widen as I'd come into view for the first time and she'd caught sight of the device now replacing my hand. That look of horror is what I want to see on her _all_ the time.

There's no end to the array of torture ideas in my mind, and I fish for another one now. Merely slicing at someone with a knife wouldn't terrify too many tributes who've grown up with the horrors of the Games. And I'll admit, Gwen appears to be stronger than most fourteen-year-olds who've had the misfortune of encountering me. No, brute violence will eventually make her scream and, in the end, kill her, but if I want to truly beat her, to destroy every last ounce of happiness and comfort within her mind, I'll have to attack her mentally as well as physically. All the better. What's the fun in breaking someone if you it isn't a challenge?

"Ah, this brings back fond memories of my work in the shop," I start again, removing my hook from under Gwen's chin, though still keeping her in place with my other arm. "You're like a little white-tailed deer. And do you know how we deal with deer at the butcher's?" Despite her efforts to remain indifferent, I can see the worry now clouding Gwen's extremely apprehensive eyes. Excellent. Years of hanging around Ember and falling prey to her numerous psychological attacks have finally paid off. "One cut," I continue, trailing my hook down the black material of her pants. "Is the leg."

She gasps as I plunge the tip of my hook deep into her thigh, twisting and jerking it around for good measure. And what's that I hear? Not quite the full on scream I'm looking for, but the beginning of one, at least until my district partner shuts her mouth with a snap to prevent any more sounds or signs of weakness from getting through. But I can still hear the grating grind of tooth on tooth, even from here, and it's enough to make me smile. Good to know she has to work that hard to keep herself from crying out.

"The leg's primarily used for steaks or roasts," I say. "Not that you'd know, I guess. Don't eat meat now, do you Gwen?" I lean in closer, shoving her harder against the tree as I do so, and she winces, fresh wounds on her back grating against rough bark. "How's that working out for you?"

I'm going on a hunch, of course. As much as I'd tried tracking Gwen down while I was with the Careers, my search attempts weren't exactly fruitful, and the one time I finally managed to sneak away from the others, hoping to get some _real_ work done, Perrin and Meredith had rudely interrupted my excursion. Still, I can't imagine anyone surviving without meat in the arena for eight days; whatever fancy protein supplements my district partner's mother came up with, I can bet they aren't available to her now. And I'm delighted to find my guess correct, as Gwen's eyes cloud over with something not unlike shame. It's a quick, fleeting emotion, and disappears almost as soon as I catch a glimpse of it, but that doesn't change the fact that it was there all the same. Not too long ago I was told by one of my latest victims back in Seven, a scrawny, freckled kid named Syder, that eventually, the guilt at what I'd done to him and all the other poor souls who'd come before would catch up to me. He'd lain there, bloody and bruised on the forest floor, and had coughed out that guilt was a crushing force that could destroy anyone in the end. Well, he didn't keep talking long after that. But even after I'd left him, threatening to come back and finish the job if he told the mayor or the Peacekeepers what had happened, the idea had stuck with me. Guilt as a crushing force. _I'd_ certainly never discovered the idea in all my eighteen years of existence, but there've been countless opportunities for me to observe the effects shame has on others. Seems Gwen is no exception. Now if only I can figure out how to use that guilt against her . . .

But the time for merely toying with her mind will come later; for now, I want to spill some more blood.

"The second cut when butchering a deer," I continue, enjoying the little gasp she gives off as I extract my hook from her leg, none too gently, "Is the ribs."

It only takes a split second for the tension in her eyes, lessened slightly after I removed the hook, to return full force as my weapon digs though white fabric and soft layers of skin, much thinner after days of starving in the arena, and starts to grate along one of her rib bones. It's slow going as I begin to trace another, partly because I want her to feel the full, agonising power of the pain, and partly because I want to make sure I don't screw up and accidentally puncture a lung in the process. Then her death would be guaranteed, albeit nice and slow, and though I have every intention of finishing my district partner off, I won't allow her to die until I've had my fun.

I leave off slicing along her most visible ribs and take a moment to glance at her reaction. I'd assumed, from the lack of full on screams in my ears, that it'd be the same as before: mouth tightly shut, some pain and fear in her eyes, but not nearly enough to satisfy me. So I'm in for a pleasant surprise when I see, not just the scarlet trail of blood trickling down from her lip, but also the shiny, glistening tracks of tears coming out from under her closed eyelids, clearing a path through the grime and muck on her face. _She's crying!_ Not only that, but if she's trying to hold in her screams so hard she's biting through her lip in the process, then I can't be far from hearing those delightful wails of agony. Just the thought causes chills of excitement to run through me.

Until she does it again. Realising there's been a sudden lack in torturous stabbings, she opens her eyes to find the reason for the pause and instead sees me in front of her, smiling dangerously. And she _glares_. Well, not glares, exactly; she doesn't appear to have enough strength left in her for that. But her brow furrows all the same, and she gives me this sort of weary stare that, any other time I would have laughed outright at it. Now, though, I deserve so much more. Look at how hard I've worked! And she doesn't even have the decency to remain terrified.

"I wish I had a mirror right now," I say, nearly snarling as the grin is wiped off my face. "You look pathetic."

"You're pathetic," she spits back, but the insult is somewhat lost due to the tightness in her tone and teeth gritted together in pain. "Carrying a huge grudge against a fourteen-year-old for such a minor thing? What's-" She breaks off sharply, gasping as another wave of pain rolls through her. "What's wrong with you?"

I don't deign her question with a response; holding up my hook is the only answer she gets. "Let's just finish with the butcher job, shall we?" And I don't hesitate to plunge my weapon right next to her shoulder, under her collar bone. "This next part," I say, not pausing to stop. "Is commonly used for roasts, or ground meat." I doubt she even hears me, too busy trying to block out the pain. But this time, this time she doesn't succeed. A tiny shriek, barely audible, but enough to make me twist the hook around more furiously inside until she can't entirely repress a cry of pain. _Yes, _I think, continuing to carve into her skin. _Yes!_

Everything sort of goes blank after that, the only thing in existence being the roar of bloodlust in my mind and the destroyed flesh before me. I keep tearing and tearing and tearing into the skin, relishing the red liquid that pours from the wound, staining everything, adoring every moment I feel the hook grate against bone. I might have gone at it all night until there was nothing left of my prey, had the shout not reached my ears. "Stop! Stop! Oh God, please stop! PLEASE!"

Blinking, I take a step back, fully realising the extent of the damage I did, and the first thing I want to do is slap myself. _Idiot_. In my blind rage, I could have severed a major artery; thankfully this doesn't seem to be the case now. It's a miracle, and one I won't take for granted; I'll have to work hard not to zone out next time.

Then I remember what caused me to stop in the first place and take a look at my victim, now lying in a heap on the ground. I'd entirely forgotten that my arm was the only thing holding her in place, and as soon as I retreated, she collapsed into a pool of her own blood. My heart skips a beat as I realise how little she's moving. She isn't . . . she isn't dead, is she? But I only had her in my grasp for such a short time! It felt like mere minutes to me. I squat down to her level and grin as I take in the slight rise and fall of her chest. She'll be fine. Well, no she won't, but she'll be alive enough to keep at it for a while yet. Probably won't be using that arm again though, not without the helpful healing technology of the Capitol. Something she _won't _be getting. I smirk at the bloody remains near her shoulder. Pity I didn't have the foresight to injure her right instead of her left; she would have felt a lot more vulnerable without a working dominant arm. Still, I have plenty of time to take care of that later.

I've just decided she's unconscious, and settled into a casual, cross-legged sitting position waiting for her to awaken when her eyes shoot open, immediately landing on me. And – this is the best part – she _scrambles away from me._ No more determination in her eyes, no, she hasn't recovered enough yet. And maybe she never will. The thought almost makes me sad; I'd pictured it taking a bit more effort to break her.

"Problem, Gwen?" I stretch out of my sitting position and go to kneel, smiling as this causes her to press herself further back, against the tree.

"Don't . . ." she starts, courage failing her as I slowly start to move. "Stay . . . Stay where you are!"

"Don't stay where I am?" I grin and lean closer, evoking her to flinch. "All right."

"No!" Having her back blocked by a tree, she scrambles to the side as I go to move closer, and I have to say, I'm impressed she can move at all with her injuries. Fear and adrenaline'll do that to you. What shocks me most, though, is that her fumbling fingers find the knife still stuck in the dead rabbit; I'd completely forgotten about it. She yanks it out and turns back to me, trembling; yet still holding the knife resolutely in my direction. It takes a moment for me to overcome my surprise, and then I laugh.

"So, what's your plan, Gwen? Going to take me on with that little toothpick?" I draw the blade in my belt and rise. "You seem to be forgetting that, in addition to my own knife, I also _am_ a weapon." She stares at my arm as I raise it up, giving her a nice view of the hook still dripping with her blood. "But you know that by now, don't you?"

The girl shivers, but her grip doesn't waver on the knife, and she takes a small swing at me as I attempt to step forward once more. And now I'm _really_ regretting not destroying her right arm. Not that I'm worried she could kill me or run, no, nothing like that. Even the exertion of holding the blade is hard enough for her, I can easily tell by the shake in her hand. The problem is, I now have to wait until she drops the knife to continue our little torture session; odds are, from my angle and her desperation, she might manage to at least graze me with the weapon before I can take it from her. My parents always said never to approach a cornered or wounded animal; they won't hold back in a fight. And though I'm completely capable of dealing with whatever small injury Gwen might give me if I walk over to her, it's what the wound symbolises that I can't stand. That, however small a victory, my district partner did manage to hurt me, to triumph if only for a moment. I'll not give her the hope that such a thing is possible.

"You never let me finish the last cut," I say, casually wiping the blood off my hook with what I believe is a piece of her shirt ripped off during one of my knife attacks. "Don't you want to know what it is?"

"Just stay away from-"

"The next cut," I continue over her, "would have been the neck. Tough meat, not the greatest and always the cheapest, but it's used in a variety of dishes. Roasts, stews, soups, ground meat, jerky." I look up from my hook and meet her scared gaze. "I take it you don't want me slicing up your neck, now do you?"

All she does is swallow hard, but the answer's pretty evident. "It's a shame," I continue. "For you, at least. I would have thought you wanted this to be over as soon as possible. You do, don't you?" She takes a deep, shuddering breath, a cascade of tremors running through her body. "Well, death is the only way out of this situation, Gwen. Learn to accept it."

I take another step forwards as I speak, but she repositions the knife aiming right in my direction and I come to a stop. _Damn her!_ I've just about decided to storm over there and risk getting a tiny cut from her knife when an idea comes to me, an evil, malicious idea that returns the psychotic grin to my face.

"Well, if you're not going to play nicely, maybe I'll just have to find some other friends," I say, sliding my blade back into my belt and turning away from Gwen. "What about your little allies? Boys from 5 and 6, right?" I look back over my shoulder at her horrified expression and my smile widens. "I'm sure they'd love what I have in store for them."

"No!" She jerks forward on the ground, but stops almost immediately as the deep wound in her leg reminds her she won't be moving anywhere for a while. There's a brief window of opportunity where her guard is down and I start back towards her, but too soon she raises the knife again. "You can't."

I smirk. "And why not?"

There's a moment's pause where she desperately wracks her brain for an answer. "Because I split up with them."

It's pretty obvious the idea just occurred to her, and I roll my eyes at the complete lack of creativity and credibility in the lie. "I find that hard to believe. You wouldn't leave them because allies made you feel protected, even when they're as pathetic as your two friends. I saw you practicing with your knife, you know." I grin at the memory. "You seemed pretty on edge. Nervous about something, maybe? _Scared_ of someone coming to find you?" She shudders at my smiles grows. So she _was _terrified I'd come find her. Thank goodness; during the Capitol I'd started to worry my less-than-subtle threats were passing unnoticed by her sluggish mind. "You wouldn't ditch those two because they made you feel more secure. And they wouldn't leave you because, well, we both saw them in training," I say, snickering. "Even your skills in the arena would be infinitely superior to theirs. They wouldn't kick that valuable a member out of their alliance."

She thinks it over, and, finding the logic to be pretty sound, tries a new tactic. "You'll never find them."

I smile. "Why don't I make you tell me?"

It all happens so fast, I can't even react. My first mistake: believing the threat of her allies had made her forget the knife in her hands. My second mistake: walking over to her. As I take my first step, she scrambles back further, more fear in her eyes, and the terror in my district partner fuels me to continue. But just as I get close, she remembers her weapon, and takes a wild, desperate swing at my leg, too unexpected to block. After the pain I've been through with my arm, I can barely feel the small scratch as it rips through the ankle material of my pants and skims against the skin beneath, but it's enough to make me _furious_.

"You think you can take me on?!" I shout, giving her an injury of my own as I deliver a full-force kick to her delicate midsection, before bending down and wrenching the knife from her grasp. "You think you can beat me, looking like this? You're _nothing_, Gwen. And soon you'll be dead." This is followed by a punch, straight to her cheek, and her head snaps back before she falls to the ground once more. But I don't let her rest for too long, oh no. I kneel beside her, my good hand hovering threateningly over the mess of her shoulder. "Scream for me, Gwen," I say, my voice coming out in a deadly whisper. "Or I'll go find those allies of yours and make a more entertaining show out of them."

Her brown eyes stare up at me, and a thrill of pleasure goes through me as I see no traces of determination or defiance; just fear, in overwhelming levels. "I-I won't tell . . . where they are."

"You won't need to." I motion to the knife in my belt and she trembles, thinking maybe that I'll take it out and hurt her with it. Yes, Gwen, that's right; be afraid. No one can save you from this fate. "Remember my career as a butcher? I've spent years tracking animals through forests. How much harder can people be?" The corners of my mouth twitch upwards once more and I lean in closer. "So scream, or the next blood to be spilt will be theirs."

And with that, I dig my remaining hand in to the bloody mess of her shoulder injury and _squeeze_. Blood comes pouring from the numerous gashes and holes my hook made, but the best part, by far the best part, is the screams. Gwen must have taken my threat to heart because she holds no cry back as I dig further into the wound, grating my fingernails against raw skin and relishing in the sounds she makes because of it. This is just too good; thank you, fate, for drawing my name and hers from the reaping bowl. Even if I die in the arena after this, I'll go a happy man; who couldn't, after listening to the symphony of screams?

Unfortunately, I can't continue forever, and withdraw my now crimson hand before too much blood can be spilled. Don't want Gwen passing out; that would just create a delay in my schedule. Not that I really _have_ a schedule, but I don't want to waste my time sitting around and waiting for my victim to regain consciousness.

"Well, I'm impressed." At the sound of my voice, Gwen's eyes slowly flutter open, bleary and unfocused due to the amount of blood she's lost, but she's staring in my general direction. "Those were some beautiful screams. But . . ." I shrug, grinning as another look of horror crosses her face at the contradiction. "I don't think your heart was in it. Now let's go find those friends of yours, shall we?"

* * *

><p><strong>Lore Fury, District 5 Male<strong>

"Do you think Gwen's all right?"

I look up from my spot sitting on the tiny table to see Taralo looking worriedly out the window of the house. Our female ally had left us rather abruptly, claiming she was off to go "hunt or forage or train or something". I'd raised no objection; Gwen was getting steadily moodier, more ready to snap at one of us, and I figured some alone time might have been good for her. Unlike the two of us, getting out of the cave seemed to do nothing to improve her overall mood.

"Don't worry, I'm sure she's fine," I say, getting up and crossing over to look out the window as well. It's small, like almost everything else in this weird house, but I can clearly see the calm, empty forest beyond. One little glowing ball of light floats causally by, drifting around seemingly at random. Well, at least we don't have to worry about being attacked by those things while we're in here.

"She left a while ago," Taralo says, fidgeting nervously with his token. "What if she's trapped somewhere, or hurt, or . . ." He swallows sharply, before barely whispering the word. "Dead?"

I grin. "Then we'll just have to get you to kiss her again, won't we?"

He blushes furiously and I have to laugh at his expression. Truth is, I have no doubt in Gwen's abilities. I remember how accurately she could throw a knife in training, and she'd seemed to be doing pretty well at the other stations too. Temperamental and occasionally irritating she may be, but I'm pretty sure she's the most skilled in our alliance when it comes to weapons.

Besides, the night after we got out of the cave, three faces appeared in the sky. It was kind of nice to have an update on who's left, since back in the tunnels, we could only hear the cannons. The dead we know of are both tributes from 2 and 3, the girl from 8, both from 9, and the girls from 10, 11 and 12. And . . . Bree. It still hurts sometimes to think about her as dead sometimes. I keep remembering the silly conversation we had during the interviews, and our more serious one about allying on our last day of training. I kind of wish she'd joined our group now. Maybe we could have saved her.

But anyways, that leaves two unknown deaths from the cannons we heard during our excursion in the cave. Personally, I'm hoping it's another two Careers. Maybe the pair from 4, they seemed pretty dangerous during training. Or the boy from 7. It doesn't take a genius to guess he's one of the casualties Gwen is hoping for.

"I didn't know it was bad." I blink, pulled from my thoughts as Taralo speaks up. "I-I thought I was . . . helping. I'm really sorry."

It takes me a second to realise he's still talking about the kiss, and one look at the miserable expression on his face is enough to make me feel slightly guilty for teasing him about it. It's just a joke, but when heard by someone who spent their entire life locked inside a tiny house, it probably doesn't come across that way. Add to the fact Gwen's continuous death glares at her refusal to forgive him for what I'm sure he thought was a harmless act, and he's probably been feeling terrible about it.

"Hey, it's fine," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Look, I know Gwen's been giving you a hard time about it, but it's not a big deal. She just likes to overreact." His downcast eyes glance up nervously, and I grin. "Besides, like I told you before, that made the entire ordeal of getting reaped worth it."

My smile must be contagious, because eventually I start to see the corners of his mouth hesitantly twitch upwards. It's not much, but the fact that he's even able to manage the smallest of grins is a huge improvement over his condition during our first few days in the arena. I give him a friendly pat on the back and start to move away from the window. Gwen insisted she'd be gone awhile and that we shouldn't bother waiting up for her, but we'd said we would anyways. It's getting pretty late now, though, at least a few hours after the anthem rang through the arena, and I'm starting to get the urge to go back on our previous statement.

"Wish I could've been there to see it though," I say sleepily, my mind still on Gwen and Taralo's ridiculous 'fairytale' moment. "Probably would've- Ah!"

My ally jumps at the outburst and searches desperately for what's wrong. "What is it?" he asks worriedly, taking in the picture of me suspended over one of the seven short beds that take up the house. I'd been about to fall back on it when an unconscious reflex kicked in and caused my hands to shoot out and grab whatever they could in an effort to stop me from sinking into the soft mattress. Currently, I'm clinging onto another windowsill and a small chair.

Hastily, I stand back up and release my grip on the furniture before turning to my fearful ally. "It's nothing," I say, trying for a casual tone. "Just, ah . . ." I eye the mattress nervously. "I may or may not have developed an unconscious aversion to beds."

It sounds absolutely ridiculous, and I want to slap myself for sounding so stupid. Thankfully, though, Taralo doesn't seem to see it as an irrational fear. "Because of the cave?" I nod, my stomach churning just at the thought of that hair-raising race through the underground tunnels. "But it's all right," Taralo says, and with a shock I realise he's trying to sound comforting. "This house is from Snow White, and the other bed was from a different fairytale."

Well, _this_ is certainly a surprising change. For once, Taralo's the one trying to reassure me while I'm standing here and being nervous. The thought makes me feel even more embarrassed, especially when the full impact of what I'm doing hits me; honestly, I'm worrying over a _bed_. I can just picture Clay killing himself laughing at home.

"Yeah, I know. It was just a reflex." My tone is calm, careless, yet I can't entirely stop myself from holding my breath as I slowly lower myself onto the mattress. The thing looks and feels normal, but I know better than to trust it based on those senses, and I flinch as my full weight is released onto the bed. _It's not moving, idiot, _I think, but I still continue to expect the thing to jolt forwards and carry me off on another bloodcurdling ride through the arena.

Another second passes, than two, and my body jerks forwards in expectance of movement that doesn't look like it's ever going to come. I exhale deeply and close my eyes for a moment, then reopen them to see Taralo still watching me. "Yeah," I say, forcing a grin on my face and laying my head back onto the mattress as well. "No problem."

_BANG!_

I nearly fall off the tiny bed as the crash of a door slamming open rings through the house, and quickly rise back into a sitting position to see what Taralo's doing. But it wasn't him who caused the noise. And as my eyes alight on the scene before me, I can feel the horror seeping into me, a hundred times worse than it would have been had the bed beneath me actually started moving.

The boy from 7 grins. "Hello, boys. Nice to finally make your acquaintance."

Right away, my eyes are drawn to him, crazed eyes, manic expression, covered in blood that couldn't possibly be his won. But then my gaze moves to the arm not holding a butcher's knife, the arm wrapped casually around the throat of someone I know all too well.

Gwen.

Oh, no.

"You'll have to introduce yourselves, I'm afraid," Rowan continues. "Gwen here didn't give me your names. Or maybe she did, I don't know. The words she was screaming were a bit hard to distinguish."

"You . . . you . . ." But I can't even find the words; I'm just too shocked. Rowan smirks at my stammers and I stop trying to talk, choosing to focus instead on Gwen. She looks like she just spent a few days in a cage with a herd of wild animals; blood runs in a thin trail from her forehead, joining another that begins at her lip. There are huge gashes across her midsection, and the material of her pants is drenched in scarlet from an injury in her thigh. But the worst, by far the worst, is the mess of torn flesh that exists as the remains of her left shoulder. Looking hard enough, I can even see a small tinge of white poking through the crimson ruin, and I realise with a jolt that it's her clavicle. He cut straight to the bone.

As though from far away, I can hear sounds of retching, and I'm pretty sure they're coming from Taralo. But I don't check; I _can't _check, my eyes are glued to the bloody mess taking the place of what was once our strong, fierce ally. At first glance, I would have thought she was dead, but as my gaze travels up to her face, I'm shocked to find her staring back at me. And that's what snaps me out of my shock at horror; her eyes. Filled with pain, guilt, and absolute terror. I've never seen Gwen this scared, not even in the underground tunnels.

Everything seems to come rushing back to me at once and sounds, colours and shapes all blur together, dispersing the fear and instead choosing to unite under a new emotion; rage. Who would do something like this to a fourteen-year-old girl? That is sick, _sick_. And I'm not going to let it continue to happen.

A roar of fury crashes through my brain and maybe I shout it too. In any case, I'm only partly aware of the fact that my feet have started moving, taking off in a heated sprint towards the monster threatening our alliance's safety. But as fast as I go, Rowan is faster, and my run ends abruptly as a powerful kick slams into my stomach, sending me crashing into the nearest bed.

"Cute," he says, twirling the knife in his free hand. "But I wouldn't try that again, or my hook might just," he grins, "_slip_."

He taps Gwen's throat with his other weapon, and with the anger crowding my brain, it takes me a second to realise what he means. At first, it appears he's holding some sort of odd, curved blade to my ally's neck, but my eyes widen in horror as I realise the hook _is_ his hand.

The eighteen-year-old laughs at my expression. "Like it?" He glances at the hook with almost loving care, and I have to fight the urge not to follow in Taralo's footsteps and throw up our meagre super. "I guess someone in the Capitol was looking to help me with my cause."

"And what cause is that?!" I shout, disentangling myself from the bed I was thrown into. "Torturing children? That's _disgusting_."

"You'd disagree if you could hear the screams. Like a flock of mockingjays singing your favourite tune. Music to my ears." His smile grows and I can feel some of my anger diminishing, replaced by the cold clutches of fear. "Why don't you listen to a few?"

Before anyone else can react, the crimson-tinged point of his knife is diving back into the skin of Gwen's shoulder. Once again, time seems to slow down, and it takes a few seconds before her cries reach my ears. Then the fear, the agony present within her shrieks hits me and I'm up and running once more.

So occupied with his district partner, Rowan doesn't have time to deliver a kick, but he does swing his arm around and backhand me across the face before I can touch him. Lucky his knife wasn't pointing in my direction, or he could have carved half my head off. As it is, the force of the hit is enough to knock me to the ground, a throbbing, stinging sensation now present in my cheek. But at least I got his attention enough for him to leave Gwen, who drops unceremoniously to the floor with a sob. At first I'm just relieved she's safe (well, not safe, but not suffering horrible pain for the moment), but the feeling quickly makes way for a crushing pain in my side as it's kicked with enough force to potentially crack a few ribs. The momentum forces me to roll onto my back and I barely start to get up before the sturdy brown boot of a tribute uniform comes stamping down on my midsection.

"I take it you still don't agree with me, then." The struggle to get air back into my lungs has become so difficult, I can barely hear Rowan over my panting and gasping for breath. "Pity. I personally can't imagine a time when the sound of a scream wouldn't cheer me up. But I guess some people aren't into having fun as much as I am." He increases the pressure on my stomach and I groan as more force is applied to the bruises I can feel blossoming across the area. But one thought continues to repeat itself in my head: _Ignore the pain_. If Gwen can live through all the agony she must be in, I can handle a few kicks.

The boy from 7 laughs as I glare up at him, wishing with all my heart that looks could kill. "Ooh, that's terrifying, really. Is that what you did to impress the Gamemakers during your private session? They should have given you much more than a five." I just narrow my eyes further, trying to force all the rage and hate I'm feeling into a single stare. Rowan's evil grin fades slightly at the action, and his voice when he next speaks is no longer the same joking tone from before. "Bit of advice," he says, bending down to halve the distance between us. "I don't like the whole 'defiant glare shtick'. It was over at least eight Hunger Games ago. Just be glad you're not my main target, or I might have to cut those annoying green eyes out of your head.

"Something I might do anyways," he continues, slowly turning his attention away from me. "After I'm finished with my precious little district partner. Hm, doesn't look like she can hold up for too much longer, does it?"

If at all possible, my glare intensifies, but Rowan's not even looking my way to see it; his eyes are solely focused on Gwen, who seems to be waning in and out of consciousness. At first, I feel a surge of pride for my other ally; Taralo's kneeling beside Gwen, pushing aside his fear to try and help our fallen friend. But then the fear returns as I realise that Rowan's gaze is zeroed in on the two of them, and his grin is stretching wide across his face.

"I'd be enormously grateful if you could drag her over here," he says, and Taralo's face, if possible, goes even paler at the realisation that this monster is talking to him. "It'd save me the trouble of having to come to you."

His eyes are as wide as dinner plates, pupils so dilated I can barely see any hint of pale blue, but there's no mistaking Taralo's small, trembling motion as he shuffles a half an inch across the floor, shielding Gwen ever so slightly from view. If I didn't have other things occupying my mind, I would have been frozen in surprise; Taralo himself certainly seems shocked at his own action, and it's with a face full of terror as he looks up at Rowan. But he doesn't move from his spot in front of Gwen.

"Adorable," Rowan says, mocking. "Hear that? It's the sound of hearts breaking in the Capitol." Then, quick as it came, all humour his gone from his face and his eyes are gleaming with the crazed light of madness. "Shall we show them what it actually sounds like, to have a real, beating heart break under your fingers?"

He leaps into action so swiftly that I don't even realise the pressure of Rowan's foot is off my chest until he's next to Taralo, swinging his knife out at the younger boy. My ally scrambles back, but I don't miss the cry of pain, or the line of crimson that opens up across his shirt. And as blood spreads like fire down the thin material, so I feel a fire rekindle inside me. No. Oh, no. No way am I going to sit by and watch as this maniac hurts two of my allies.

It takes a huge amount of effort to struggle to my feet, and my resolution to ignore the pain is tested as agony flares up around my ribs. But another scream from Taralo renews my determination, and gripping a nearby bed tightly with one hand, I manage to pull myself to a standing position. _Ignore it!_ I think furiously as the desire to collapse and ease the burden on my injuries enters my mind. _Just like with the fire. Ignore it and keep going._

It's almost as if I'm back in the burning building, though this time the crackle of flames is replaced by the cries of my allies, the searing heat replaced by stinging pain in my stomach. And today, the danger isn't in the form of fire, or smoke; it's a raging, torturing monster, not even something I'd consider a person. To be a human, you have to have at least an ounce of humanity.

Rowan doesn't even notice my advancements, but Taralo does, and he stops in the middle of backing away to look at me helplessly. The distraction is all Rowan needs to deliver another one of his bone-crushing kicks, which sends my ally sprawling into another one of the seven beds. Lying dazed against the wooden furniture, he makes a perfect target, but I don't allow Rowan to continue. Instead, I jump on my window of opportunity to grab his hook with both my hands as he raises it back for what might have been the killing blow.

"You're still around?" I only respond to his disgusted tone by gripping what was once his hand even tighter. The butcher knife in his free hand comes swinging towards me, but I manage to lean back and avoid it while still keeping a hold on the hook. Not a very good hold though, and one strong pull from Rowan is enough to wrench is arm out of my grasp; another quick motion and a blazing line of pain bursts into existence across my cheek, the tip of Rowan's curved weapon now coated in fresh blood. He brings his knife back to land another, deeper hit, and I prepare myself for the pain that I know will follow; he's got me boxed in against the wall, and I have nowhere to run. But then Taralo acts and everything changes.

Being so new to your surroundings can have its advantages; you'll tend to pick up a lot more than someone whose used to seeing that sort of thing. I never noticed the trapdoors underneath the beds, but they became a lot more visible once the furniture had been pushed aside courtesy of Taralo and I being slammed into it. And just before Rowan can take my head off with his knife, my ally yanks open the secret hatch nearest him, probably in the desperate hope that something, _anything_ might come out and help us. Nothing could possibly make this situation any worse.

It's like he set off a go signal for the rest of the room. As soon as one trapdoor opens, the other six, each positioned under their respective bed, burst outward and send the furniture careening off to the side by the force of the motion. And then, from the seven holes, out crawl some of the most terrifying creatures I will ever see in my entire life.

They couldn't be more than half our height, but their eyes glow with a red, demonic light, and their mouths are twice as big as a normal human's, every available space filled with razor-sharp teeth. Equally pointed talons sprout from their long, spindly fingers, and matted, dirty beards stretch across grey, wrinkled faces as these new mutts smile menacingly before jumping as one onto Rowan.

After all the shocks of tonight, my reaction time has started to get better, and less than a second passes before I'm up and hobbling towards Gwen, Taralo racing to join me. "We have to get out of here!" I shout, somewhat needlessly; I can tell by his expression that my ally's even more horrified than I am. These mutts might be attacking Rowan now, but who knows when they might turn on us. "Get to the door!"

I heave Gwen up by the arms, wincing as she grits her teeth in pain, but the time for being gentle can come when we're not running for our lives. Taralo tries to help, but I can tell he's suffering from the injuries Rowan gave him too, and none of us are moving fast as we try to get out of the cottage. We barely cover half the distance before an almost animalistic roar rings through the cabin and a now-bleeding Rowan slides into our path.

It seems the time for joking and mockery is over now; his face is deadly furious as he glares at us from under hair now red with blood. I've never seen anything like this new breed of mutt, but they're more vicious than anything we met in the cave. The eighteen-year-old's body is already riddled with deep gashes and bite marks; as I watch another mutt comes leaping out of nowhere, teeth poised and ready to tear the flesh from Rowan's arm, but he bats it away with a hiss, kicking out at two more that try to approach him from the ground. It's seven on one, and they may be small, but they're more of a weapon than a living, breathing creature. Still, nothing seems to have detracted Rowan from his main goal.

"You're dead," he spits venomously, and I don't know whether he's aiming the comment at me, Taralo, or the half-conscious Gwen. Maybe all three of us. But I bother asking him to specify; instead, I let go of Gwen and grab the nearest thing I can get my hands on: a bedside table.

"Lore . . ." Taralo's voice is shaking almost as much as he is, and one hand is has my shoulder clenched in a death grip while the other struggles to support Gwen.

"Get inside the trapdoors," I say, or try to; before I can finish, Rowan lets out another roar before leaping forward, ignoring the mutt wrapped around his leg and happily gnawing on flesh. There weren't exactly any stations on fighting with furniture during training, but I improvise, heaving the table up to protect myself as Rowan's swinging hook comes at me once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Taralo lowering Gwen into one of the exposed holes before squeezing in after her. _It's too small_, I realise with a sinking feeling of dread. _Too small for three people._

Taralo doesn't notice though, or if he does, he tries to deny it, as he shouts at me over the noises of wood against metal and the gnashing sounds of inhuman teeth banging together. "Lore!" I block another hit from Rowan, nearly dropping the table as vibrations from the blow reverberate painfully through my ribs, and chance another glance back at my ally. He's still waiting, one hand on the top of the trapdoor, pleading silently for me to come join him. And I realise he knows. "Lore, come on!"

"I . . . can't!" I say, taking advantage of a distracted Rowan trying to stab a nearby mutt and trying to push him back and away from the others. "Look, I'll hop in another one, just keep Gwen safe!"

I'm positive he can hear me, even over the sounds of battle raging all around us. Yet he still keeps the door open, refusing to let it shut before I get in. "Taralo! Just-" But I'm cut off as Rowan retaliates against my attempts at forcing him to retreat. This time, I can't hold onto the little table, and it goes flying from my hand in a mess of wooden splinters to crash against the opposite wall. However, before he has a chance to land another blow, the mutts surge forwards for what seems almost like a planned attack, and he's dragged down by their combined force. Giving me time to take a few steps over to Taralo and slam the trapdoor down over his head. I'm pretty sure I can hear a muffled shout of protest, but I ignore it as I yank a dresser down over the hatch. Now they're as safe as they can get from Rowan and the mutts, should they choose to turn on us. And all I have to do is hop into another trapdoor and we'll make it. We'll actually make it through the-

I don't know what I register first; the feeling, or the sound of the knife as it slams between my shoulder blades. It's sort of _thump_, followed by an almost undetectable squelch as the weapon passes through flesh and muscles to stick squarely in my back. The pain doesn't even come until I've fallen to my knees, and I can't even cry out when it does. It's too much; and the odd thing is, I realise this. It's too much agony for my body to handle, and everything is going to have to shut down because of it.

I continue to collapse, and end up hitting one of the beds, pushed at a diagonal angle from the wall due to the fight and chaos that ensued around it. The tilt of the frame causes me to twist slightly, and as my head turns, already dulling eyes find the murderous stare of Rowan Hollows, his one remaining hand now free of the knife it usually carried. I can barely make sense of the scene anymore as he's quickly overtaken by the mutts once more; two of them have climbed onto his shoulders, and don't hesitate to plunge their teeth into his head. _That's bad. Or good? Bad for him. Good for us. Us . . ._

My thoughts are incredibly disjointed, and I can already feel myself beginning to slip away, but that one word stays with me. _Us_. Only there won't be an 'us' anymore, will there? Just a them. Just a Gwen and Taralo.

I think I should feel sad about that, but I can't. Nothing seems to make sense anymore, and I watch with indifferent, fading eyes as the mutts tear mercilessly into what was once the boy from 7. That's good, I think. I don't know anymore . . .

But I do know the meaning of the cannon as it fires through the arena, the last sound I'll ever hear. It couldn't have been mine, I'm still at death's door; I've yet to enter the realm beyond. So it must have been . . . it must have been . . . I can't even think of his name. But it means he's gone. And they're all right. 'They', a word that has lost all meaning as well. They could be the little girl from the fire. They could be my old friend Basil, who I'd stood up for more than once in my life. Or they could be the two terrified kids huddled in a secret compartment inside a blood-coated cottage, praying and begging for the fighting to be over. In the end, and this seems to be it, 'they's' identity doesn't really matter. My whole life is blurring together in a series of events I can't distinguish; the individuals aren't important. What's important is that they can keep going now, and live on after these events. Don't think about the past, don't ponder the present, just keep looking ahead.

And so I stop worrying about 'they' and look to my future, allowing the blanket of shadows to envelop me one last time.


	44. The Calm Between the Storms

_**Hello again everyone! Hope you're all doing well :)**_

_**This chapter was originally supposed to be a lot longer, with two other POVs, but I got sick and had to study for exams and yeah, short version, I didn't have time to write the whole thing. But I still really wanted to update, seeing as today is this story's ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY! Hurray! Yeah, so shorter chapter, to give you all a break from the monsters I've been posting recently :)**_

_**Oh, and after you finish this, check out Sovereign2's SYOT, called A Game of Victor's. It's an AU of the 3rd Quarter Quell with non-canon victors, and you should all go submit tributes! That is all :)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

Slowly, I've begun the process of emerging from my sheltered lifestyle and coming to know the world beyond. Each passing second has been the worst of my life, awful, terrible, completely horrifying, and yet somehow, I can't bring myself to regret every moment of it. This world is neither safe nor secure, but it holds a certain something that the four plain, wooden walls of our tiny home back in 6 could never give me.

Now, though, I feel like I'm back at those awful chariot rides, where the noises and colours were all so overwhelming I thought I was going to pass out. Here in the darkness of the secret hole, I can't see much of anything, but the sounds that reach my ears are ten times worse than any I heard during my week in that 'Capitol' place.

"Lore!" I shout, still trying to reopen the trapdoor after he slammed it shut. "Lore!" But he can't hear me. Or maybe he's just too busy fighting Rowan.

Or maybe he's already been killed, blood pouring from numerous gaping wounds as his murderer makes his way towards us right now, holding his knife at the ready and slowly beginning to-

"_No_." The word comes out as a sob as my hands, giving up their useless attempts at opening the door above, wrap quickly around the ever-present moth in its cocoon of soft fabric, but the normally reassuring gesture does nothing to keep the tears from my eyes and the whimpers from my throat. This whole night has been one gruesome, terrifying nightmare after another, and it can't end with Lore's death. In this world of fear and uncertainty, where I can't even count upon Zephyr to make an appearance, my allies have been the only thing keeping me alive and sane. I want to repay them, I want to help _them_ in return, but instead Gwen's laying half under and half beside me, injured and mutilated beyond anything natural, while Lore's above fighting a battle I don't think he can win.

_Stop it!_ As though the thought was voiced audibly, I clap my hands around my mouth and shake my head, feeling the hot wetness on my fingers as tears roll down my face. I can't think like this; what if it becomes true because I got the idea in my head that Lore would die? He's going to be fine, he's going to be fine . . . after all, the heroes in the fairytales always emerged victorious. And if Lore, with his kindness and friendliness and ability to put up with both me and Gwen, doesn't count as a hero, then I don't know who would.

I don't know what makes me feel worse: the shocking sound of the first cannon, leaving me in terrible uncertainty as to who's dead and who will be the person to open this trapdoor and decide our fate, or the final _boom _or the second, following shortly after the first. They're both gone. That vicious, wicked boy from Gwen's district will never threaten us again.

But Lore's disappeared forever now too.

I thought Gwen was unconscious, but I'm proven wrong as I look over at her, completely in shock and somehow holding onto the hope that she'll deny the cannons, say it was a different noise perhaps, something else normal in this world I'm so unused to. But her brown eyes fill with a pain that doesn't derive from her physical injuries, so much so that it's as much of a confirmation as if she'd spoken the truth aloud. And then I begin to cry.

I don't know how long I stay in the hole, curled into a ball, moaning and gasping and clutching at my necklace as though it could still offer me some comfort. I may have even passed out at one point; the deep, wracking sobs that seemed to rip through my lungs never left me any room to get air in. Each time I tried to calm myself, Lore's face would float past my eyes and the crying and hyperventilation would start even worse. I know Gwen definitely fell asleep at one point, finally succumbing to the immense agony she must be in, and that was one of the scariest things I'd encountered tonight. To look over at my other ally and see her eyes closed in the dimness of the secret compartment, poking, nudging and finally shaking her to no avail, crying her name over and over again with no response; I thought I'd lost another ally. My only companion was the darkness, and the sickening sounds of chewing and crunching that still came from the cabin above.

After that, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I'm opening swollen, bloodshot eyes and glancing around, bleary and utterly confused as to what woke me. Then I hear the grating noise again.

My gaze shoots to the trapdoor above me where the sound seems to be emanating from, on the other side of the wood. I'm still so wrapped up in a cloud of grief, shock and horror that I barely comprehend what the noise signifies, until it hits me. The sound is just like one I heard so long ago, when I'd first grown curious of what lay outside the window in my bedroom. I must have been half my present height, and couldn't reach the ledge myself, so I'd tried dragging my trunk over to the sill so I could climb up on it and see out. I didn't even get halfway before my mother caught me, and numerous things had been yelled that day; how the outside world is dangerous, how I was too young to leave the house, and how the trunk had marred the floor with black lines as I'd attempted to push it.

The noise reaching my ears now is exactly like the grating one my trunk had made, and I realise with a shock that someone above us (directly above, from the sounds of it), is pushing something aside. Furniture, maybe. I don't even have time to wonder why or how this is happening before the noise stop abruptly and a different sound rings out; the jiggling and creaking of the trapdoor handle as it's lifted upwards.

For once, my first thought at a new development is not one of terror, and no ideas of horrible dangers make their way into my head. Instead, my mind is filled only with thoughts of Lore. _Lore_; he's come to save us! The cannon must have been for someone else. That can happen, right? I mean, in a place as treacherous as this arena, it's not entirely impossible for someone to die at the same moment Lore and Rowan were fighting it out in the cabin above. It's plausible, it's completely plausible. And now he's come to rescue us, and together we'll be able to make Gwen better, and then the three of us can escape this terrible place and live happily ever-

"Ahh!"

I don't even think; just react. And it's a good thing too; if I'd taken the time to truly see the hideous face appearing in the cracked opening of the trapped door, with blood dripping from each pointed tooth as something that looks suspiciously like a finger sticks out of its mouth, I'd have been too terrified to do anything but sit there and let it attack me. Instead, my reflexes kick in and I do one of the most dangerous things that can ever be done in life.

I punch the evil dwarf right in its face.

Then the reacting finishes, and the thinking begins again. Almost immediately, my hands fly to my mouth and I gasp in horror at what I've done. I'd noticed there were seven trapdoors when I first opened one, and I'd assumed the fairytale creatures would come crawling out of it, but they looked _nothing _like they did in Summer's book. The bright colours of their clothes, silky white beards, and goofy traits that gave each dwarf their name; none of that was present in these crazed, mutant . . ._things_. And I just hit one.

_Close the door!_ my inner thoughts shout, but it's as though my hand, so eager to move quickly before, is now frozen, along with the rest of me. However, I can't seem to stop myself from rising a half of an inch out of the hole, just enough for my terrified eyes to peer out over the edge of the door. _Don't look!_ part of me screams. _Do you want to see death racing towards you? _But I can't turn away. All my life, I've cowered in fear of unseen dangers, and they still got me instead. This time, as scared as I am, I want to see what's coming.

My gaze alights on the creature, sprawled a few feet away with its long, pointed nose bent at an unnatural angle. But as I watch, one grey, taloned hand reaches up, and with a sickening _crack!_ shoves the nose back into its original position. It snarls slightly in discomfort and makes to get up, but stops as its red, demonic eyes find me.

I want to jerk back in horror, to duck down and slam the trapdoor on top of me; every nerve in my body is _screaming_, shouting in fear and telling me to move, get away, do _something_. But I'm completely paralysed, helpless to do anything but watch as the thing stands and growls, before snapping its teeth in my direction and filling the air with the grating sound of bone on bone.

_Thump._

The dwarf peers down at the floor, and if it wasn't an evil, merciless monster incapable of feeling anything other than bloodlust, I'd say the sudden sound confused it. For my part, I just grow more horrified at the situation as I stare at the bloody finger, released from its position in the dwarf's mouth when the thing snapped at me and now lying on the floor at the creature's feet. Slowly, the monster bends down and grasps the appendage between two of its own sharp, bloodstained claws. Then, after taking what seems like a moment of decision, it pops the finger into its mouth and closes its teeth again with a sickening _crunch_.

At this point, I don't even react. I can't imagine my eyes could grow any wider, my face could go any paler, the tremors wracking my body could grow any more ferocious. And so I just stand and stare, watching as a long, forked red tongue slithers out of the dwarf's mouth to lick its black lips clean of blood before the monster turns around, opens the nearest trapdoor and hops inside.

I could have stayed in the same position all day, frozen in place in both horror at the events of last night and relief at the fact that I wasn't just eaten by a twisted creature from a children's book. But then I finally register the mass of dark hair just barely visible in the corner of my eye, and the realisation of what it is hits me.

Lore.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is somewhere between a terrified whimper and a despairing moan as I look to his eyes, hidden behind closed lids that are far too relaxed for someone living the horrors of these Games. And gradually my eyes travel down his grazed cheek, past his straw-coloured shirt to the glistening pool of crimson at his feet.

Until the arena, I'd never seen copious amounts of blood before. In the safety of my house, the worst I'd ever experienced was the occasional rug burn or paper cut. Since coming here, I've seen blood pour from the boy who tried to kill Lore on the first day, blood flow from Lore's broken nose, tiny rivers of blood trickle down from the many spots on my body where I'd been stabbed by the needles in the cave. But even Gwen's injuries last night did nothing to prepare me for this. There the scarlet liquid coated her wounds and seeped into her shirt and pants, but what little puddles there were were small. This, this is an ocean, a sweeping sea containing the entire reserve of a person's lifeblood.

"No. No, no, no, no, no . . ." The word pours from my mouth unconsciously, and once I've started saying it, I can't stop. But speaking aloud seems to have unfrozen me and I clamber out of the hole in a sudden burst of speed, scrambling for the ally I'm afraid I've already lost. "No, no, no, no, no!" My hands stretch out and grab Lore's shoulders, but shaking him only succeeds in revealing the silver butcher's knife stuck deeply in his back.

The sight of the weapon causes me to scramble backwards, visions of the blade wielded by a ferocious Rowan floating before my eyes. At once, the pain from my own injuries – forgotten in lieu of my desperation and terror – comes back full force, and I clutch at my stomach in agony. I'd never been hurt like this back at my house; one of the reasons my mother was so determined to keep me there. But even as my trembling fingers find the long, jagged scab now covering the wound, the injury is still only second place in terms of horrible torture this arena has caused me. This first is right in front of me, in the shape of pale, cold corpse acting as what was once my real friend.

"Lore . . . Lore . . ." At some point, I just stop saying the name and sit moaning on the floor, letting the seemingly endless stream of salty tears flow down my cheeks again at the thought that he's gone, leaving me alone in this terrible place with no one to help me. Why? Why?! I just want to go home; I want to go home and be safe, I want my mother and my father, I want to be protected in my little bedroom with Zephyr and the moth and Lore . . .

"Taralo? Taralo!"

The sound is sudden and my head shoots up just as it did when I heard the moving furniture. But unlike then, I can't kid myself into thinking this noise is my lost ally rising from the dead. The voice is higher-pitched, definitely female, and in my distraught, slightly delusional state, I half-believe my mother has come to rescue me from this awful arena. But then a sliver of reason shoots through the cloud of despair in my mind like a lightning bolt, and I nearly jump at the realisation. "G-Gwen?"

"Yes. Yes! Oh yes, thank you, I'm not dreaming. Where are you?"

The amount of relief in her voice is such a contrast to my misery that it takes my brain a few seconds to understand her question. "Up . . . up here."

"Out of the hole? Please, you have to help me up, I can't stay in here a moment longer, it smells like . . ."

She peters off, but my mind's already filling in the blanks. It smells like death in the hole. It smells like blood and sweat and pain and it's unbearable. But up here is worse.

"Taralo." Gwen's voice comes floating back to me after a few moments where I decide to leave her in the secret compartment and not force her to see the destruction up above. "Taralo, please." Her tone is weaker than before, barely more than a whisper now that she's gotten over her initial relief, and this time I can hear the panic and agony in her voice. "I feel like I've been buried alive down here."

The fear is one so unknown to me that at first I don't understand it. In the hole at least, if you ignore the blood, there are four close walls to keep you safe. Even in the cave I liked it better because horrifying things could only come at you from two sides. This arena is so vast and empty of any protective hiding places, I figured a smaller, enclosed area would comfort anyone. It never occurred to me that anyone could have the opposite of my fear.

Hesitantly, I begin to rise from my position on the floor, wincing as pain flares across my stomach. How did I manage to crawl out of the trapdoor without feeling this agony?

"_It's adrenaline. Like, I don't know, this kind of rush you get, I guess? When something dangerous or risky is happening." He looks over at me and grins. "You probably wouldn't know too much about that, though, would you?"_

_I just shake my head; even the word 'dangerous' makes me want to hide away in one of the many bushes we pass on our trek through the forest. If I wasn't so terrified at the idea of what I just experienced, I might have been awed to see so many trees in one place. "So you didn't feel hurt before?"_

"_Well . . ." He shrugs. "I mean, I felt it, especially the punch to my nose. But his hands came at my throat and the whole thing became life-threatening, I dunno, the pain just kind of . . . disappeared." He wiggles his fingers a bit and laughs, and even some of my anxiety diminishes at the smile on his face. Then his hand goes back to his nose and he winces. "Really feeling it now though."_

"_Well we're not out of danger yet," Gwen says sharply from up front. "So keep your complaints to yourself and don't stop walking."_

My hand wraps around the remains of the moth on my necklace and I squeeze them tightly, trying to banish the memory from my mind. I don't want to remember, I don't want to remember; especially not a time when he was smiling. I think it's worse now seeing him happy than dead; he didn't know that afternoon that eight days later he'd be killed.

"Taralo? Are you still there?"

I nod, then realise Gwen can't see me and mutter a quiet "Yes" before peeking my head over the edge of the hole. My remaining ally stares up at me in relief.

"Good. Can you help me out?"

"Um . . ." I nod again, even though I don't really know what she wants me to do.

"Just take my hand," Gwen says, seeming to read my thoughts. "I can do the rest."

But it's obvious as soon as she stretches her left arm out to me that she can't. Even the small motion to put her hand in mine causes her to wince, and her left arm was the one that was mostly untouched. Still, she seems determinedly to get out of the hole, and clenches her teeth stubbornly before starting to rise.

I try to ignore the muffled groans and gaps that escape her lips, but all they make me think of is last night, and the louder screams that echoed through the cabin when Rowan drove his knife into Gwen's shoulder. It's like I can almost hear them now, and I nearly let go of Gwen's hand in order to plug my ears from the phantom cries. Somehow though, I manage to keep a grip on the trembling fingers in my grasp, and I watch as my ally slowly straightens up in the hole, putting almost all her weight on the leg that wasn't injured. And as I watch, new blood starts to flow from that injury and her many others at the exertion of standing, bright crimson staining her clothes and flooding the secret compartment once more. But she doesn't stop.

"Gwen . . ." I manage to get out, my horrified gaze trained on her shoulder, by far the worst of her injuries. "Gwen, I-I think-"

"_No_, Taralo." The harshness in her tone surprises me and I flinch; I didn't think she had it in her to be this strict in her state. She takes her eyes off the edge of the hold and looks up at me, showing off the determined glint in her eyes. "I'm getting out of here."

If I was strong like some of the other tributes I'd seen before we had entered the arena, I could have just plucked Gwen from the hole and set her down easily on the cabin floor. But I'm not, so I have to resort to helping by half-pulling, half-dragging her over the edge of the secret compartment. Her cries grow louder every time I move, but she also commands me between tears not to stop whenever she senses a pause in my movements. And eventually, I manage to drag her out enough so that she can pull her legs from the hole herself, and then she just lies on the ground, breathing heavily and wincing every two seconds. I fix my gaze on the ground, trying to ignore the puddle of blood beginning to seep from my ally onto the wood. Even then though, I can feel my stomach churning, hear my brain screaming to leave. But I can't; Gwen needs me.

No, no she doesn't. She needs a huntsman, merciful and kind who lets her run safely away. She needs a host of seven merry dwarves to help her and feed her and take her in when she's alone and in danger. And she needs a prince charming, to save her and lead her off to a happy ending. But the huntsman's mercy never existed, the dwarves are murdering demons, and if ever there was a prince charming, he died trying to save Snow White, but neither of them got their happily ever after.

I'm all she has left now.

"T-thank you." The words come out feebly and divided by a sickeningly wet cough, but I hear them all the same. My eyes go back to Gwen as she continues, "I-I just really needed to get o-out. I thought I'd already been put in a box and shipped back h-home and buried before I really died." She lets out what could either be a small laugh or a sob and I have a hard time believing this was my ally who sounded so relieved just a short while ago. I guess powerful emotions really can block out pain when they come all at once.

"_It's adrenaline. Like, I don't know, this kind of rush you get, I guess? When something dangerous or risky-_

_No_. No, no, no. Don't think about it, don't think about it.

"Anyways, thanks." Gwen sucks in a deep breath and tries to calm herself, the words coming out sharper than I think she intended as she fights to put on her mask of haughty indifference once more. And she nearly manages it too, until she tries getting herself into a sitting position and finds herself staring right at the dead body of our old ally.

"Oh."

It's barely more than a whisper, but I hear it all the same. Remembering my reaction, I wait for Gwen to continue, but she just stays in her position staring at Lore and the knife sticking out of his back. It's like she can't think of anything else to say. And really, nothing she could say would make the situation any better.

Still, I'm expecting something more as we sit in silence; a tear or two, maybe, or uncontrollable sobs like me. But my live ally seems to be exhausted emotionally as well as physically, and all she can manage is a deep, weary sigh.

"Taralo?"

"Yes?"

"Let's get out of here."

Her request confuses me, seeing as she went through so much pain just trying to get out of the hole. I open my mouth to remind her of this, but she just gives me a look that tells me I shouldn't argue. So I don't. Especially since the longer we stay the more aware I am of the disgusting smell of death, the warm air that feels thick with blood, and of course, Lore. And suddenly I very much want to get away from the cabin as well.

It takes some time, and a lot of forced-down cries on Gwen's part, but after slinging her left arm over my shoulder, she manages to stand. Taking steps are even harder, and I find myself supporting her completely on the first few. My muscles immediately start to ache and her blood seeps into the side of my shirt, saturating the fabric and tingeing it a glistening scarlet that reeks with a metallic scent. _Ignore it, _I repeat to myself, thinking over the same phrase I've used throughout my whole stay in the Capitol and the arena. _Ignore it, ignore it, help Gwen, focus on the moth._

I hear a small noise of disgust from my ally, different to the gasps and groans I'm used to, and turn my head to see her staring at something on the ground. At first, I can't quite make out what it is, but it dawns on me as I take a closer look, and suddenly I wish I'd kept my gaze turned away.

Strewn across the wooden floor of the cabin are a few bloody rags that could barely be considered a tribute uniform anymore. Here and there around the mess a few bloody clumps sit stinking on the ground, and I don't want to think about where they came from. But it soon becomes obvious as I catch sight of the metal device, gleaming from beside a single, half-chewed eyeball.

A bloody hook.

"We're leaving. Now." Gwen turns away from what's left of her district partner, obviously waiting for me to make a move since she's unable to by herself. But her gaze softens ever so slightly as she catches sight of my face. "Taralo?"

I feel like as soon as I open my mouth, I'm going to throw up again, but somehow I manage to stammer out, "Yes?"

"Are you going to be sick?"

What little contents left in my stomach from last night are churning wildly around, but I find myself shaking my head in answer. Getting sick means stopping, and stopping means staying in this cabin longer, something I find myself growing more and more unable to tolerate every second we pause here. "I just want to get out of here," I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth desperately. "I just want to get out of here and go . . . and go . . ." But what am I saying? This is Gwen, who never needed rest breaks when Lore and I did, never joked around or smiled, and never complained. Even now, left in such a terrible state by her district partner, she's been trying to hide her pain. I can't finish my sentence; she'd scold me, or shake her head and roll her eyes, or-

"Home."

I stare at her, shocked that she knew what I was thinking and that she seems to understand. She just attempts a small shrug with her one good shoulder and says, "That's what you meant, right?" Unconsciously, I find myself nodding, and she returns the gesture. "Right. Well," she continues, turning back towards the cabin door. "Let's go home, Taralo. Let's go home."

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><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

I don't know how long I've been moving. I don't know when I last stopped. Consciousness is a fickle thing, hovering just out of my grasp at times and disappearing completely at others. It angers me. I can't fall asleep when it comes time to kill my victims. Who knows, one could even have walked right by me and I would have been none the wiser. Maybe it was Janaff . . .

My rage grows at the thought of missing my chance to torture and murder the one who tried to kill me with his little "trap", and the repetitive motion of my arms quickens: Stretch out, grab the ground, pull body forward. Stretch out, grab the ground, pull body forward.

At some point, I begin to register the change in terrain. No longer am I crawling over soft dirt and overgrown tree roots; now the land is rockier, sharp pebbles frequently jabbing into my hands and what little is left of my legs. But I ignore it easily; I'm past feeling pain.

I don't even know where I'm going, but I tell myself that doesn't matter. Sooner or later, the Capitol will send a tribute my way. These people want a show, and how can they get one watching two wimps battle it out? _I'm _the only one left in this arena with the ferocity and drive to win the Games, the only one who will murder without hesitating. And the Capitol likes that, don't they?

_Aha!_ A cave, just up ahead, set into one of the small mountains bordering the edge of the arena. I remember seeing it from far away, back on the tower with my allies. _Allies_. Such a disgustingly inappropriate word for the group who called themselves 'Careers'. Idiots. Weaklings. Cowards. Backstabbers. Traitors. Losers.

_Losers of the 37__th__ annual Hunger Games._

I like the sound of that.

In anticipation of the kill I know I'm sure to get once I reach the cave, my speed increases once more, causing the whip I still carry at my hip to bounce along uncomfortably against my side. But, even if I let such a minor thing like that bother me, I'd never remove it. The fifteen feet of leather at my side is the only weapon I have left, unless I count my own two hands. And while I'm positive I could kill just as easily with those, whipping flesh from bone until my target is begging for mercy would be _so _much more satisfying.

I continue to inch my way up the slightly smoother area that could qualify as a mountain path, and before I know it, I'm rapidly approaching the cave entrance. The gravel shifts under me and I curse, wishing I could be quieter, but no matter; no one in that cavern is getting out without going through me.

I drag myself over to the wall of rock right beside the gaping hole in the mountain and my hand flies immediately to my side, fingers caressing the soft, firm handle of my whip. Carefully, I detach it from my belt and uncoil it almost lovingly before tightening my grip and preparing to strike. This is it; my first kill made without those irritating fake 'Careers' around to hinder me. The feeling of joy is so strong within me that I have trouble focusing, and for a moment my vision almost darkens. But I shake my head furiously to clear it; I can't lose control now. I want to remember every moment of this.

Having a lack of two working legs makes jumping out and scaring the crap out of someone a lot harder, but I'm pretty sure I still manage to make a pretty good impression. Balancing on what's left of my thighs, and feeling for the first time a sense of pain shoot through me as injured, seared flesh scrapes against hard rock, I half-slide, half-stumble forward, cracking my whip in the air to make up for the less-than-dramatic entrance and baring my teeth in a wide, demonic grin. I'm ready to kill.

But it's not a tribute I see in the cave.

At first, it seemed as if I might have passed by unnoticed. But then the huge, scaly body shifts, the long, thin neck turns and suddenly I find myself staring back into the two familiar, reptilian eyes of the dragon.

The roar is so loud it nearly sends me flying from the cave entrance; as it is, the stalactites above us rattle dangerously, threatening to fall at any moment. I refuse to be beaten though; the red I see so often tints my vision once more and I let out my own version of a roar, cracking the whip above me to add to the menace. I've resolved to kill every last tribute in these Games, and no giant pile of scales and claws is going to get in my way.

And the strangest thing is, the dragon backs down.

The gesture isn't overly submissive or obvious, but I don't miss the way the dragon stops its roar immediately, ducking its head and instead choosing to utter a low, guttural growl. But its feet betray its emotions, shuffling a half a step back as its narrowed, red eyes lock on the weapon clasped in my hand.

For a moment, I pause, the sudden change in the beast's behaviour throwing me off guard. Then my vision begins to adjust to the darkness, and I really take in the rest of the creature's body. The main subject of interest being the monster's front claws and stomach, which are still riddled with the harsh lash marks I delivered so long ago.

_So it's afraid of the pain I can deliver._ I smirk, the true reason for why I've yet to be incinerated becoming clear. The dragon won't attack because it fears retaliation. In a way, it's just like my pathetic ex-allies. Sure, Janaff and Perrin had their little 'plan' to take me down, but neither wanted to execute it until they absolutely had to, just in case it went wrong and I was still alive to exact my vengeance.

I raise my arm, preparing to whip the dragon anyways (if I can't kill a tribute, might as well try and get some fun out of watching an animal squirm), when all of a sudden, a parachute floats to the ground at my feet. Odd how out of all the things that happened today, the dragon was only the second most surprising. I never played the sponsors, never hid my bloodthirstiness or desire to kill. I figured if they weren't willing to sponsor me as a ruthless, murdering machine, than they were too weak and cowardly to deserve sponsoring me. But now I've received a gift, though not a costly one at that, something that becomes clear as I unhook the parachute (keeping one eye on the dragon the entire time) and open the parcel to find a long, sturdy coil of rope. What? Why? Why rope? What can it do that my whip couldn't possibly accomplish?

My eyes jump from the gift to my weapon and back again before returning once more to the great beast before me. Sensing my gaze, the dragon gives what might almost be considered a nervous snort, steam shooting out from its two huge nostrils as it watches me. And suddenly, I start to grin again, smile stretching wider and wider across my face until I feel as if my head will split in two. Then comes the laughter.

I know what they want me to do. And I'll do it, too. Oh, how the other tributes will cower before me when they see this.


	45. Hickory Dickory Death

_**I'M BACK!**_

_**Yes, after a long, long pause in my fanfiction life, I've finally returned, and am hopefully here to stay :) So I bring you the next chapter of a Grimm Set of Games, which may be slightly off as I haven't written for this story in like, months. Hope it's all right anyways though and I won't keep you all; I've made you wait long enough for this chapter as is :)**_

_**As always, enjoy!**_

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><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

_"The arena always leaves an impression. Whether it destroys you literally or figuratively, the choice is up to you. I challenge you to find a third option."_

I think I've found it. The third option my mentor was talking about on the last night before the Games. I tried so hard to continue on, even after Devera died, tried so hard to find the elusive winning scenario that would get me out of the arena with both my mind and body intact. Mare told me the Games would either kill me physically or mentally, and until that afternoon two days ago, I really believed I could avoid that fate. And now I know the Capitol offers you three options:

1. You can die in the arena.

2. You can survive the Hunger Games and emerge alive from the arena, but broken on the inside, carrying with you the knowledge and guilt of who died and who you personally murdered in order to live for the rest of your life.

3. You'll break first, and then die.

That's it, that's all; there's no other choice. I've been haunted by the girl from 12 ever since she fell victim to my trap; always she's present in my nightmares, accusing me of murder, of taking an innocent life to benefit myself. Worse though was the night she appeared as a friend, holding my hand and reassuring me everything's all right, that she forgives me. And just as I let my guard down, just as I begin to trust her, she turns into a horrifying monster, sprouting wings and fangs that rip my arm to ribbons as she drags me down an enormous, dark pit where the rest of the dead tributes reside.

Is it selfish, not to want to die in the Games? I mean, indirectly, I'm really wishing for is the deaths of twenty-three innocent kids. Honestly, that's not what I'm hoping at all, it's just . . . I'm also hoping I don't die. And you can't have both in the arena.

So then I must have wanted Devera to die; must have been praying in some small part of my brain that she'd never make it out of the arena alive. Who knows, maybe unconsciously I'd tried to make sure she died in the bloodbath. I could have done so much more to get her down the rope, could have insisted she go first, could have forced her to climb. Could have, could have, could have. But I didn't. I never went into the arena with the intention of dying and I'm no idiot; I know the rules of the Games and how only one can come out. Therefore I must have wanted one of my best friend's siblings to die. What kind of monster wants that?

Me, apparently.

I can barely tell reality apart from fantasy anymore, hallucinations from actual occurrences. Who could, in a place where all sorts of nightmares can be brought to life? Lately I've started doubting whether the dragon I saw a few days ago truly existed. Even the Gamemakers couldn't pull something like that off. Could they? No, they must have; I'd never be able to dream up something so horrifying on my own.

Though my nightmares are almost equally terrifying, and just as graphic as what little of the dragon battle I saw. So both must be fake . . . or both must be real. Which would mean that Devera never died, but instead comes to me every night and slips her tiny hand into mine before turning into Keya and ripping me apart for killing her sister.

I don't know; I just don't know anymore. I've completely lost sight of everything; my home, my family, my friends. Even if I did win the Games now, what would be the point? Nothing could possibly undo the effects of the arena and my life would never go back to normal. Especially knowing that twenty-three children died for me to live. I murdered twenty-three children. One of them being my friend's sister.

"Oh, God." The words are barely comprehensible, stammered out between deep, heaving sobs as I lie curled in a ball next to a big oak tree. After Malia's death, I just sort of stumbled through the forest, not caring where I was going or who might find me. Somehow, miraculously, I found my way to a small brook running through the area, and the Gamemakers seemed to act mercifully and leave the water clean enough to drink from. I haven't eaten in days though. Every time I think about food, Malia's district partner appears, sticking his hand out and wafting the scent of burning flesh towards my nose, repeatedly offering for me to try a bite.

It was the smell. The disgusting, repulsive smell, but only disgusting and repulsive because it smelled _good_. Growing up in District 10, we always had meat with every meal, even if it was a small portion. And after being in the arena for five days with absolutely no protein, is it entirely unreasonable to find any hint of cooking meat enticing?

I just never thought a burning person would smell so much like my mother's famous roast pork loin.

More sobs escape me as the reality of my situation truly hits me. I've lost. _I'm_ lost. There's no chance of finding my way back to normality now, not when I felt my mouth water just a bit as I watched an innocent boy burn alive. What would my parents say, they who have always lived their lives placing others before themselves. What would my _friends _say?

Nothing, I guess. Because I wouldn't have any friends left if I ever made it back to District 10. Who would trust a person who has unconscious thoughts about murder and cannibalism?

I should have faced the music two weeks ago, when my name was picked from that glass bowl. There's no way around it; you're doomed as soon as they read out that little white slip. What's the point in training, in even having a victor? We're all going to end up dead anyways.

Except for one of us, who might just have it worse.

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><p><strong>Dylian Carte, District 11 Male<strong>

I couldn't help it; I came back. The entire time spent walking through the forest, I kept telling myself how stupid I was being, how this was definitely going to get me killed. But I just couldn't stop.

And now I'm back, standing outside the wooden gates and staring apprehensively up at the tower where I fought and killed the mutt replica of my sister just a few days ago. For two days I wandered around the woods near the castle, making up my mind and then changing it every few seconds. No, I did not want to go back and discover what other nasty surprises the Gamemakers had hidden within those stone walls. But at the same time, I hadn't realised how safe it had made me feel.

I wouldn't call my life back in the district "relaxing". Quite the opposite, actually. What with the ever-present question of when and how we might next get food, not to mention the constant danger of being arrested and shot by the Peacekeepers. I don't know how Joh ever managed to be so calm and light-hearted. What would the Head Peacekeeper say if he found out his son was best friends with one of the most wanted people in the district? And if that happened, what would Joh do? Appease his father, stand by his side and watch me get shot? Or put his life on the line in an effort to save mine?

As you can see, I tend to find the worst possible situations and play them over and over in my head, allowing the worry to build and grow until it nearly consumes me. That's just back in District 11; multiply the terror by a factor of fifty, and you might be close to the level at which I'm currently freaking out. The possibilities for death here are endless. At least in the castle, I sort of knew what I was dealing with. There were walls, gates, limits to the confines in which the Gamemakers could place all their horrendous traps. Out here, in the wild, anything can happen.

Which is why I stupidly decided to return to the castle, and now I'm waiting out here with my hand frozen on the gate, wondering whether or not this is really worth the risk. I've already gotten about as much as I could out of the place – in other words, I raided the armory before I left. And now, in addition to the sword at my belt, I have a bow and quiver of arrows slung across my back, and a dagger also hanging on the other side of my waist. I feel a bit ridiculous at times, especially with the amount of rustling and clanging the weapons make; my old profession relied on stealth and silence, and all this noise only heightens my paranoia. But even just the thought of removing one blade gives me a sensation of vulnerability so powerful I almost feel physically sick. So the knife, sword and arrows remain, while I try my best to move even slower and quieter than I used to.

Even so, the weapons still make an inordinate amount of noise in my ears as I ease open the wooden gate and slip slowly back into the castle courtyard. Added to the clanking sounds are the shouts of my own mind, screaming at me to turn back. But now that I stand behind the castle walls once more, the thought of leaving them again sends an involuntary shiver up my spine. Just as I was unable to remove the weapons due to the added protection I felt they gave me, I find my feet glued in place, refusing to step back outside the gate and take my chances in the woods beyond.

They don't seem to object to moving forward, however, and soon enough I find myself creeping toward the heavy oaken door that marks the true entrance to the castle. The remains of any previous apprehension begin to build up again as I lay my hand on the brass handle, reaching a point where they threaten to boil over and reduce me to a blubbering mass of paranoia once more, but I force myself to ignore it. _Just stay in the main hall, _I tell myself, reluctantly pushing the door open. _Stay in the main hall and whatever you do, don't go _near_ that tower._

In my absence, however, I forgot the horrors contained within the first room of the castle. Since I left, a mere two days ago, there've been six cannons. _Six_. One fourth of the original amount of tributes sent into the arena were killed in forty-eight hours. The first went off shortly after I left the castle; the other three, the next day; and two more the night after that. Without the tapestries, all I got was the same information as everyone else. Their name, district number and one last image flashing in the sky before they disappeared from my life forever.

The girl from 12. The pair from 2 and the girl from 9. Both boys from 5 and 7. None had made much of an impression on me, though I'd made a mental note to keep away from the Careers and whatever tributes they'd picked up from outlier districts. I hadn't felt any guilt or sadness at their deaths and was perfectly happy to let them lie forgotten.

Too bad the tapestries have a different plan in mind.

My eyes are drawn immediately to the back wall as I step in, and once they land on the first new tapestry, I'm unable to tear them away. Right in front of me, the gruesome death of Malia Endal dances across the fabric of the tapestry, the most reoccurring colour of thread being red. Red: the girl's blood as it seeps out of the giant, gaping hole in her chest. Red: her lips and tongue as she opens her mouth in silent pleas. Red: the glistening hue of the boy from 10's eyes as he stands behind Malia, laughing at the fallen tribute. Another instance of the tapestries distorting a kid's true personality.

The next two are no better to look at. In the first, the girl from 2 lies slumped in what looks like a dirt hole while her district partner advances on her, with soulless eyes and knife raised. Thin, black lines run from his arms up to the sky, where the girl from 4 holds them like some sort of sinister puppet master. Code also stars in the next tapestry; at least, I assume it's him. The image seems to be trying to depict some sort of gigantic explosion, and the unidentifiable bits and pieces of a body make my stomach twist sickeningly. But the one thing flying away from the blast intact is a small, intricately woven dream catcher. It was one of the more unique tokens, and as it was a big focus during his interview, I never forgot whose it was.

Imogen's is less gruesome, though that's not saying much for the tapestries. I'm assuming she didn't die in battle, since she's depicted lying on a bed of grass. It might almost be peaceful, if you ignored the poisonous, black lines that run up and down her veins. Oh, and the ghostly image of the boy from 7 behind her, grinning viciously and holding a crimson-stained knife in his hand.

Rowan is also present in the next two tapestries; once as the killer, and once as the killed. After all the horrifying pictures before this one, I figure nothing could phase me now, and I'm surprised (and slightly disgusted) when my eyes alight on the death of the boy from 5 and I don't find myself wanting to run or throw up. How messed up do you have to be in order to not even flinch when looking at the image of a kid with a knife in their back?

But my fleeting fear that I might be turning into some sort of violent monster quickly disappears, because my reaction to the next image is just as extreme, if not more so than the one to all the other pictures. I thought the dragon mutt was bad, but had I the choice between fighting it or these hideous dwarf-like creatures, well, it's a toss-up as to which I'd pick.

Shuddering, I finally manage to turn away from the tapestries, trying to block out the image of Rowan's face as it's devoured by the new mutts. If these deaths are anything to go by, then these Games just seem to be getting more violent, and the Gamemakers more sadistic. Just the thought makes the cuts on my face sting painfully, and slowly I reach one hand up to the gash all the way along my cheekbone, where the crazed clone of my sister carved into my skin with my own sword. The one at my belt is actually a different blade; when I was in the armory before I left, I made the decision to leave it behind and pick up a new one. Too many bad memories were associated with the old weapon; every time I looked at it, the face of my sister, starved and manic, would float before my eyes.

And that attack happened two days ago. I've already come to the conclusion that the Gamemakers might target me specifically due to my little stunt in the bloodbath, and the fact that the deaths just keep getting more gruesome is starting to _really_ make me fear for my life.

Still, hopefully the fact that our numbers have been cut down to nine in the past few days will stay their hand for now. Nine. Wow, is it really so little? Fifteen people have been killed since the Games started, and only a handful of us remain. After the next death, there'll be the family interviews. My heart twitches painfully at the thought of my mother and sisters as they're filmed by Capitol citizens, their words to be broadcast all over Panem. Or was the mutt version of Penny telling the truth? Maybe my family really is dead.

No, I can't think like that. All these worries and worst-case scenarios dancing through my head; I'm going to go insane before the Gamemakers even make their move. Focus on something else Dylian, ignore thoughts of home and find something to distract yourse-

_BAM!_

The noise nearly gives me a heart attack. Seeing as the only footsteps I've ever heard in the castle other than my own are those of my sister, it seems my reaction is pretty rational as I jump about a foot in the air before diving behind the giant throne at the back of the room for cover.

_Don't let it be Penny, don't let it be Penny, don't let it be Penny . . ._ The words are like a frantic mantra as I try desperately to calm my breathing; at this rate, whatever's in here with me will have no trouble following the sounds of my hyperventilation. Whatever's in here with me . . . oh God, please don't let it be Penny. Another encounter with the crazed mutt clone of my sister and I just might break.

My trembling fingers desperately try to get an arrow notched in my bow as I peek out through the golden lattice work that decorates the top of the throne. The footfalls are growing louder and louder, and any second someone's going to come out of the stone archway that leads off to another part of the castle. Or something. And I know if it's the mutt, I'll have no chance. I already stared into my sister's accusing eyes once as I killed her; I'd never be able to do it again.

_BAM!_

I draw a sharp breath, steeling myself for whatever might come next.

_BAM!_

My thumb slips down the arrow shaft, but at this point, I'm highly doubting my ability to use a weapon.

_BAM!_

It's coming.

_BAM!_

It's here.

_BAM!_

It's . . . Perrin Bellerose?

I barely manage to catch myself before I let loose such a relieved sigh it surely would have been heard by the boy from 4. I doubt anyone in the history of the Hunger Games has ever been happy to see a Career, but at this point, shaking with joy. Or with the remnants of adrenaline that were coursing so swiftly through my veins a moment ago. One or the other.

Perrin walks halfway across the room, determinedly not looking in my direction, though I'm guessing it's not me he's worried about spotting; the tapestries sit directly behind my hiding spot, and the deaths of four of his allies are woven vividly into the fabric. But as they always did with me, so they draw Perrin's eyes, and he grimaces as soon as they come into view before shaking his head and pointedly turning away. And that's when I realise the opportunity I've been granted.

As one of the older tributes in these Games, and probably the most experienced in areas of life considered "evil" and "illegal", it might be surprising that I've yet to kill a tribute. All right, yes my way of living doesn't exactly adhere to the law, but never in my entire existence has the idea of murdering someone crossed my mind, even with the numerous attempts made on my life. And now, one of the biggest threats still left in the Games is kneeling with his back to me, rifling through his pack and completely ignorant to the fact that I sit with a strung bow not five feet from him.

The string vibrates ever so slightly as I crouch behind the throne, and take a deep breath. I could do this, right now. I could take out one of the three remaining Careers. I was just thinking about my family, how much I missed them. One simple motion of my fingers and I'd be one step closer to reuniting with them. Then why can't I let the arrow go?

I told myself all throughout my week at the Capitol that I would kill in the arena. I couldn't afford to be one of those high and mighty tributes who refused to go against their morals, especially with the Gamemakers targeting me too. But there's a big difference between fighting to the death in the bloodbath and slaughtering someone unawares while their back is turned.

And it's a difference I can't seem to ignore. Sighing, I let the bow drop and close my eyes. I don't know what I hate myself for more: the fact that I couldn't kill Perrin, or the fact that I even contemplated the idea.

Or the fact that as my weapon drops to my side, the arrow grates along the stone floor, creating a sound that's all too loud in the otherwise silent castle. Immediately I go rigid, my left hand tightening even more around the grip of my bow, but the damage is done. Perrin freezes instantly and his head shoots up like one of the prairie dogs so common to the fields of District 11. For a moment he just sits in his place, staring at the wall in front of him, and I hold my breath in the hopes that he might dismiss the sound as nothing.

Then he whirls around and throws a dagger right at the centre of the throne.

Thank God I was behind the chair; had I been sitting in it, I would have been skewered right through the heart. But I don't have time to fret over this near-death experience; I'm about to have another one.

Metal clangs against metal as I draw my sword just in time to meet Perrin's. How he could run over here so fast, and pull the blade out of its sheath at the same time amazes me; I can barely get the thing out smoothly while standing still. _Freaking Career training_.

The thought comes back even more forcefully as Perrin whips his sword around again, and my meagre attempt at a block saves me from getting cut, but leaves my entire right arm feeling numb. It's only then that I realise my opponent's blade already has blood on it. _Dried_ blood. That sword did look unsettlingly familiar.

As if on cue, the cuts on my face begin to prickle once more.

With my right arm still sore from the block, I'm completely vulnerable to Perrin's next swing, and make the mistake of lifting my left hand to protect myself as I back away. The pain is instantaneous, even worse than the cuts Penny made across my face, and for a terrifying moment I worry that my hand has been sliced in two. But no, my fingers are still there, splaying out across the ground behind me as I fall back to avoid Perrin's next blow.

"Ah!" And I thought the cut hurt as the sword dug into my flesh. But now, as the gash grinds into the stone floor beneath me, leaving a bloody handprint in its wake, I feel like my whole arm is going to fall off. And maybe it'd be better if it did; then I wouldn't be feeling this agony.

_Shut up and get it together, Dylian! _The thought comes as me as quickly as Perrin's sword, and it's only with years of avoiding blows from the Peacekeepers that I manage to roll out of the way._ Focus on what's going on now and don't. Die!_

Even just the word brings up images of myself impaled on the sword, slowly bleeding out, and the thought sets my reflexes into overdrive. Finishing my roll that took me out of harm's way for the moment, I kick out and manage to knock Perrin's legs from under him, and he goes crashing to the floor.

I'm up in a flash, bringing down my own sword in a mirror of his latest attack, but he's had his share of past experience too, different though they may be from mine. His blade swings up to block my blow, and the clanging metal pulls my focus, leaving me vulnerable to hit from him, this one in the form of a kick to my stomach.

All air leaves my lungs as his foot slams into me, and I have to grab onto the stairwell banister to keep myself from falling over. This kind of blow though, I'm used to; back home the Peacekeepers would usually find me stealing from produce stalls or unguarded merchant stands as opposed to the orchard I was in on reaping day, and seeing as it was too risky to use their guns for fear they might hit some innocent citizen, they had to resort to fists and batons. I had to learn rather early on to forget the pain and keep going – slow recuperation meant a quick death if I was caught.

So I push away the fact that it's still impossible to take a breath and focus on getting myself out of this situation. In a split second, my brain comes up with three different thoughts. One: I can't attack Perrin – I like to think I'm a quick learner but even so, whatever skills with a sword I managed to pick up in our three Capitol training days couldn't possibly outmatch a lifetime of Career practice. Two: I can't continue defending against him either, because sooner or later, I'm bound to screw up and the tide will turn in his favour. And three: I'm holding onto the railing of one of two staircases that lead away from the main hall. We must have fought our way over without noticing. In normal people terms, this wouldn't be all that great a discovery.

In thief terms, it's an excellent escape route.

Perrin jumps to his feet, brandishing his sword and fully ready to slice me in two. Only problem is, I'm no longer there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn to glimpse me sprinting up the stairs as though my life depends on it. Which it really, _really_ does. Apart from the obvious (our district, our appearance, our chances of winning the Games), this is another area where my opponent and I differ. All my life, I've taught myself tactics to avoid and evade. He's taught himself to hit hard, hit fast and hit first.

I swing down one corridor, then another, hoping to get Perrin as confused as I can. However long he's been here, there's no way he's spent the time I have in the castle, and if he doesn't know the layout well, that's one advantage I might desperately need later. Another would be his sword out of his hands, but I can't have anything.

Or can I?

My feet keep pounding forward down the hallway, but my mind takes a completely new turn. No, this could never work. Could it? It seems utterly ridiculous, borderline childish, and yet it just might save my life.

Behind me I can still hear the ever-present _thump_ of Perrin's footsteps, yet it seems to grow ever-so-slightly fainter with each passing second. I smile slightly to myself; he may have had practice doing laps in a gym, but I've learned how to run in the streets of my district with a hoard of Peacekeepers on my tail. And let me tell you, nothing ups your sprinting skills like a man in white with a warrant for your arrest and hanging chasing you.

Eventually, I decide that I'm far enough away to implement my plan and skid to the stop at the end of the hallway. Why the Gamemakers felt the need to decorate this one, tiny part of the arena with such extravagance is beyond me, but every corridor of the castle is lined with tapestries (normal ones, that is), a variety of marble statues and rugs. Huge, rectangular rugs that nearly span the length and width of the whole hall, only leaving about a foot of stone floor visible on each side. It's on this ground that I stop, my arms already trying to stick my sword back in its sheath and grab for the carpet before I've even come to a rest.

Now that I've stopped putting distance between us, Perrin's footsteps start to grow louder and louder, and my heart hammers despite attempts at calming myself. "It's going to be all right," I mutter, gathering as much of the rug in my hands as I can and discovering, to my delight, that it's lighter than it looks. "It's all going to be fine. This'll work, this'll work. And if not, well, you'll think of other ideas. Maybe."

This rousing pep talk doesn't exactly do my nerves any good, but all my worries disappear as the pounding of footsteps gets closer and closer. It's like my brain has some sort of survival instinct, and just when I'm about to do something dangerous or risky, the part of my mind that generates worries and fears simply shuts off. That's why I much prefer doing things to standing around and waiting. My friend Cat always called it my Zen Thief State. I chose to think of it as my Need to Focus and Stay Alive _Now_ State.

The thud of footsteps is almost upon me and I tense my arms, feeling as though my muscles are about to snap from pressure. Any second Perrin's going to come around that corner, and I have to act at just the right moment; not too soon, not too late. _Any second. Any second . . ._

The flash of bright blue material is the first glimpse I get of my opponent, and as soon as it registers in my mind I act. Fingers clench, arms pull back and I'm yanking as hard as I can on the carpet in my hands.

I'd been hoping the sudden tug on the rug would throw Perrin off, maybe even make him fall, and my heart soars as I watch him do exactly that. But time for congratulating myself will come later (if at all). I'm not finished yet.

Springing forward, I lunge into a sprint heading straight at Perrin, and my fingers manage to wrap around the hilt of his sword before he can recover from his fall. But at the pull of my hands on his, he reacts instantly, his grip tightening as he yanks the sword away. I'm prepared for it though, and instead of fighting against the pull and perhaps losing the blade in the process, I follow it, allowing myself to fall to the side and follow the weapon's movement. Perrin seems to take this as his opportunity to gain the upper hand and he makes a move to pin me to the ground, which would be a really, _really_ bad position to wind up in. My mind comes up with a solution before I can really register it and almost subconsciously my fist swings out and I punch Perrin straight in the nose.

Had I not acted reflexively, I would have considered it way to risky to take my hand off of the sword's hilt, but the gamble is well-rewarded as my unexpected hit loosens Perrin's grip just enough to let me yank the sword out of his grasp. The two of us quickly scramble away from each other and to our feet, taking note of the sudden change in the balance of power; I now hold one sword in my hand with another at my hip, while the boy from 4 has nothing but a useless backpack on.

Or maybe not so useless; faster than I can blink, Perrin's whipped an arm over his shoulder and grabbed something out of his backpack before hurling it in my direction.

I just barely manage to dodge out of the way, but even still the knife grazes my arm as it flies by. Funny, I thought taking away his sword would make him _less_ dangerous. My eyes dart back to Perrin, but all I've faced with is an empty corridor, the _thump_ of footsteps ringing in my ears.

I waste no time in chasing after him, briefly wondering where it is I'm chasing him to. Outside, I'd guess, or maybe the armory; he must have been there if he managed to pick up the sword I discarded. Part of me wonders if I should just quit chasing him and go deeper into the castle, find somewhere to hide until he leaves. But my paranoia would eat me from the inside out; I won't feel safe here again until I watch him run out those castle doors. And even then, he knows I'm here now. This place will never again hold any sense of security for me.

_Idiot. Should have stayed in the forest, should _not _have come back here . . ._

My chase leads me up another flight of stairs and down a corridor I don't remember well. What's Perrin trying to do? Cautiously, I slow my sprint into a fast-paced jog; wouldn't want to walk right into a trap, Gamemaker or Perrin-made.

A door slams up ahead and I jump at the unexpected noise, which brings with it visions of a tower, a slithering sound, a girl with golden, impossibly long hair. Only not a girl, a deranged creature with fangs and claws the size of-

_Shut up!_ I shout within my mind. Try as I might, I could never forget the tower, or its placement within the castle. We're nowhere near it now.

There's only one doorway to be seen as I turn the corner, which makes it an obvious choice to head through. Yet still I hesitate, sword out and ready while my other hand makes no move towards the handle. Perrin has to be planning something; most Career tributes tend to leap first and look later, but once in a while you get a smart one who actually thinks. Had I been up against his district partner, perhaps, or Rowan, we'd still be back in the hallway fighting. A Career thinking only with their brawn would have attacked me, weapon or no, to get their sword back. Perrin ran to give himself more time to come up with a plan. One I can't let him implement if I want to leave this castle, and the arena, unscarred and alive.

Still, I can't just wait out here. Waiting leads to thinking and thinking leads to worrying and worrying leads to a complete meltdown of my sanity. So I don't really have another option.

Taking a deep breath, and lifting the sword even higher, I slowly reach my hand out to grasp the handle, then yank it back all at once so that the door slams open wide. Nothing jumps out at me, no Gamemaker traps or District 4 boys. Or mutts. Thank goodness for that. Steeling myself, I take my first step into the room and take in my surroundings.

I vaguely remember looking into this room when I first got to the castle, just to map out the place. There was no light inside, and the only things it seemed to contain were giant gears that whirred and clinked too loud to be tolerable, always accompanied by the irritating _tick tick tick _of some invisible device. Later I decided this was the room that powered the giant clock on the outside of the castle. So did Perrin wind up here by accident, or was he deliberately trying to pick the creepiest place to fight?

Well, whatever the case, he hopefully wasn't counting on the fact that I'm in my element here. Darkness is every thief's best friend; add to that the noise and I'd be able to walk as silently as a ghost. The only problem being, I wouldn't be able to hear Perrin either.

My sprint from a few minutes ago has slowed to the most cautious of creeps, and it seems as though it takes an hour for each new step I take to be made. My sword's still held aloft, but not being able to see properly is really starting to put me on edge. What if Perrin's hiding behind the next gear I pass, waiting to jump out and steal the sword back? What if he's climbed to the rafters above, watching for the perfect moment to land on top of me and knock the breath from my lungs? What if he's behind me right now, silent amidst the grinding of the gears and just getting ready to strike?

I whirl around, sword swinging straight through an imaginary enemy as my eyes dart from side to side, taking in the space all around me empty of tributes. _See, _I think to myself, lowering my sword ever so slightly. _You're just being paranoid. You have to calm down, or at some point it'll be your-_

My mind never gets a chance to finish the thought. There's a short swishing sound and suddenly thick, solid material brushed against the front of my neck, quickly tightening with unbearable pressure. I choke out a muffled gasp, one hand flying to the cord around my throat, but Perrin twists the rope and loops it around my head once more, enabling him to slowly strangle me with one hand while the other grabs my own to stop any bids for freedom. And I know what he's forcing me to do, but I can't stop myself; reflexively, I let the sword fall from my hand so that my fingers can grab the cord and allow some air to get into my throat.

Immediately the pressure lifts and I gasp, sucking in beautiful mouthfuls of air. Now that my brain has the oxygen to think, I realise it's not a rope around my neck at all, but some sort of bungee cord with the ends looped together. Probably something he'd carried with him from the Career base before stuffing it in one of the sacks available at the castle. I'm really beginning to think that backpack is the most dangerous weapon here.

However my decision is quickly rethought as the sword, back in Perrin's grasp, comes swinging at me out of nowhere. I don't so much see the blade as hear it singing through the air, and I can almost smell the metallic scent of blood it's about to spill.

I dodge to the side, but the motion is sloppy, my hands desperately groping for the sword at my hip. But I know I've lost the upper hand now; the balance of power has shifted once more and if I don't change it again _right now_, I'm dead.

The flight instinct that's developed so well in me over the years kicks in and I find myself stumbling off in the dark, still trying to get my sword out with sweaty, shaking hands. Behind me I can hear Perrin advancing, sword swishing through the air in front of him. The only thing slowing both of us is the limited visibility here, but that won't help me for long; sooner or later, I'm going to end up dead.

_No!_ I think frantically, and my hands leave the sword's hilt, instead shooting out in front of me to try and find something in the environment that could help. Something to climb maybe, so I could get higher, disappear into the rafters above.

Well, it's no convenient ladder or railing my fingers find, but some sort of latch. My heart leaps at the thought of a door out of this shadowy room, or maybe some sort of secret tunnel; old castles had those, didn't they? My fingers stumble over the handle, twisting and turning it all while the sounds of Perrin's footsteps grow louder and louder behind me.

Finally, the door swings inwards and I blunder gracefully through it, only to stumble back in horror a moment later.

It's not a door. And it doesn't lead to another hallway, or a tunnel. The latch opened a panel in the giant clock outside, and I'm two feet from the edge of the ledge and a plummet to the untimely demise.

But I may not have another choice; another wild swing from Perrin's sword can be heard behind me, though this time it doesn't just swish harmlessly through the air. First there's the sound of ripping fabric, then the metallic scent I'd spoken of earlier, so heavy I can practically taste it. And then there's the pain.

It takes all of my strength to move as the line of fire sears its way down my back, and all of my bravery to step out on the ledge. If I didn't, though, Perrin would definitely have killed me with his next blow; I had nowhere else to go. Although death by sword is starting to sound less awful than it did originally, especially as I peer over the ledge to the ground below.

Well, I did want to be up high.

I look back towards the opening I stepped through and jump back in shock, narrowly avoiding the blade that swings my way. The ledge doesn't give me much room to retreat as it curves upwards, but I get as far as I can from the sword and its wielder, currently sticking his head out of the panel I came from.

The shock I felt is present in his eyes as he looks down, but it doesn't stop him from clambering out onto the ledge. I'm frozen in horror at the absolute awfulness of our situation, but thankfully my brain jumps back into action and I remember the sword at my belt, which I _finally_ manage to draw, despite the fact that my fingers are shaking like my youngest sister on reaping day.

Perrin notices this weakness and raises his weapon, preparing to strike while I try to look confident in my ability to block. But just before he can deliver the blow, I catch sight of something over his shoulder that makes me instinctively duck. Now would be the perfect opportunity to kill me, but something in my behaviour must have stayed his hand, and he looks over his shoulder too before barely managing to follow my lead in time.

I don't know what the Gamemakers were thinking when they designed this thing, or if they had somehow predicted a battle might take place up here, but for some reason, those sadists have chosen to replace the second hand of the clock with a deadly, razor-sharp blade that makes the swords Perrin and I hold pale in comparison. Thankfully the thing moves over my head without carving another deep gash into my back, but as I cautiously raise my head, I can see my opponent wasn't so lucky. A vertical gash carves deeply into his back, saturating the blue fabric around it with crimson blood. And though I'm still mostly horrified with this situation, a small part of me is almost glad Perrin was injured. I might actually have a chance.

But he somehow still manages to block as I swing my sword, and even parry with a blow of his own. Neither makes contact, but the air around us rings with the sound of steel kissing steel, just barely audible over the powerful _ticks_ of the clock. And then the second hand is swinging around again, and both of us are forced to duck once more.

It continues on like this for what feels like hours to me. Lunge, swing, dodge, block, duck. Lunge, swing, dodge, block, duck. We have such minimal space to duel, yet I'm actually relatively used to that sort of thing; at home in the district, rooftops were a frequent escape route for me, and while they weren't so high up (nor had gigantic, ticking blades swinging around them), the amount of space isn't too different. Perrin, for his part, is doing pretty well too, though there've been one or two moments when his footing's slipped and I lunge forward, about to take advantage of his lack of balance. But then the second hand comes swinging back around and I'm forced to end my blow early as we both duck once more.

The two of us are just jumping back up, my sword already swinging out towards Perrin in the same fashion as every other time, but now he does something different. Instead of raising his weapon to block, he shoots it out in a motion opposite to mine with the blade up, and the sword swishes out right underneath my down-moving wrist, cutting deeply through flesh and veins.

The pain is so striking, for a moment I really think I'm going to pass out, and the desperate struggle for consciousness ensues. I can't give in now; however low the odds might be, they most certainly will _not _be in my favour if I faint.

Perrin lunges forward for another blow and I stumble back in a daze, desperately trying to keep my balance and stay on the ledge. Though my opponent seems less concerned with this, hence his wild swing which he was sure would make contact, thus saving him from the momentum of a missed attack that might throw him off the ledge.

The only problem: his attack _did_ miss. And now he's desperately trying to keep the weight on his heels, arms wind milling wildly beside him in an attempt to stop from going over the edge. It hits me, through my pain-filled haze; this is it. This is my chance. My right arm is useless, my left hand bearing a great, bloody gash and the arm flailing closest to me still holds his sword, but I don't need power close proximity if I let gravity do all the work for me.

Bracing myself, I call on every bit of strength I have left and jump back. It's a manoeuvre I've done many a time back in 11, when the Peacekeepers had me cornered down an alley that led nowhere. My feet leave the ledge's surface, and for a terrifying moment it feels as though I might fall from the clock. But then they land again, higher on the clock's curved rim and it's here that I push off of, before I slip down. The sword's pointed out in my left hand, and though I feel like I barely have enough force to keep it aloft, I know that gravity will do its part; maybe the swing won't go right through Perrin, but it'll certainly be enough to knock him off the ledge and send him plummeting to his doom

It all happens so fast, I don't realise what's wrong until it's too late. Suddenly, huge, booming bell tolls ring out, stark contrast to the usual ticking. The hour hand jerks upwards towards the nine, and that's when I feel the violent tug at my throat, yanking me away from Perrin to dangle wildly above the ledge. All air leaves my throat at once, and as my clawing fingers reach up towards my neck (the sword clattering noisily to the ledge before tipping over the side and falling from view), I realise what happened. The bungee cord Perrin had used to try and strangle me is still wrapped around my neck, and seemed to just get more tangled as our fight went on, and when I went backwards to jump, part of it must have somehow caught around the hour hand. _No! _I think frantically, my fingers desperately trying to unravel the twisted cord and allow a breath to pass into my lungs. _No, no, no, no, no! This can't be how it ends, not like this, it has to-_

Something moves in the corner of my eye; Perrin, balance regained and sword at the ready. His bright green eyes meet my own and for a second it feels like I really am looking at myself. I was there, in his position just a moment ago: blade out, ready to kill. Only the tables turned on me; I can't imagine they'll do the same again.

But there's a second, a brief, brief second where hope flutters through my heart. I'm stuck dangling in the air, weaponless and slowly asphyxiating, but Perrin never lands the killing blow. Instead, he looks over his shoulder and drops to the ground (or what passes for it on the ledge), leading me to believe there's another tribute come to my rescue. Or maybe it's Penny, the real one this time. Or Joh, getting me out of trouble like he has on so many occasions. Or my mother, my kind, caring mother, who's raised me and loved me and comforted me whenever I needed it.

A job she manages to do one last time. It's her face, and her voice that stay in my head as I watch the razor-sharp blade of the second hand come ticking down the moments until my death.

* * *

><p><em>In the Capitol . . .<em>

"_So, Mother, what do you want to see more of in the Games?"_

"_What? Speak up, I can't hear you over this darned thing!"_

"_I said, what do you want to see more of in the Games? Fairytales and such."_

"_Oh. Ohhhh. Oh, oh, oh! What about that one I used to play for you all the time when you were a baby? It came from that thing we had over your crib."_

"_That's not a fairytale, Mother, that was a nursery rhyme. You were too cheap to buy me a mobile that would tell me whole stories."_

"_Ohhhh. Well do something with that, I loved that song. How'd it go again? Started with . . . hickory. Hickory steak, was it?"_

Firndil rolled his eyes, a gesture often used whenever thoughts of his mother sprung up. Indeed, their conversation over the phone had been full of eye rolls and irritated sighs; he didn't know why he'd even bothered calling her in the first place.

Oh, that's right. Because all the other Gamemakers thought it was fun to flaunt their families in his face.

Honestly, Preena chatting about the arena with her cousins, Kelwin talking with his kids. And every time the Gamemakers had to get together to discuss plans to implement in the arena, it was always, "Illyelle said she really liked the Sleeping Beauty trap", "My son wants to see more of the "Cool Jumping, Stealing Guy"."

So Firndil had called up his mother, the only family relation he had left. Seeing as half of what she said were complaints about the man always stealing her parking spot, and the other half made no sense, Firndil hadn't expected much to come of their discussion. After all, he absolutely _loathed_ that nursery rhyme. Always, _always _it was stuck in his head, all because his mother wasn't willing to spend a little more money and get him a mobile that recited stories like all young Capitol children received above their cribs. He'd go to bed humming the tune, wake up with the words still fresh in his mind. It was _horrible_.

How well it matched then with a certain awful tribute with filching fingers that couldn't be kept to himself.

Oh, of course the majority of the events were all thanks to the Career from 4; Firndil could claim no part in what had happened. But that didn't stop the grin from spreading across his face as he watched the boy squirm, his sneak-thief hands occupied with matters other than making the lives of rich people miserable. _Hope your son enjoys this just as much as I am, Kelwin,_ Firndil thought to himself. He stared at the scream and sniggered. "Time's up."

Simultaneously, Dovkhan over on the other side of the room pressed the button that released the sound of the cannon as Firndil flicked his own finger, activating the switch that unveiled the next tapestry. Technology was a marvel; allowing them to make such authentic-looking pieces of art merely by taking a snapshot of the scene, editing it around and then scanning it onto a bare length of fabric. Absolutely wonderful.

And slowly, right next to that depicting the boy from 7's demise, the next tapestry unrolled, sporting a lot of crimson thread and some black and silver to form the shining second hand as it carved right through the boy from 11's body.

Rubbing his precious golden watch, Firndil turned away from the screen with a grin. Now, he believed he deserved a coffee break. No one objected as he rose from his seat, and it was only when he neared the door that he realised he'd begun to hum. A familiar tune, one he'd heard too many times to count. But this time, it sounded different, improved even, like a breath of fresh air. Perhaps this was due to the new lyrics playing their way through his head.

_Hickory dickory death_

_The rat gets one last breath_

_The clock strikes nine_

_The rat goes down_

_Hickory dickory death_


	46. Of Monsters and Mentors

**_Ho. Ly. Fudge._**

**_Never again, I promise, I will do my utmost best to never again post a chapter this long. Under 20 000 words, that's what I'm hoping they'll be from now on. And this isn't even a Games chapter; yeesh, I'm so sorry guys._**

**_Anyways, as some of you might have noticed, as of the last chapter, we're down to the final eight! Which means one thing: interviews! Except not, kind of. Originally I was going to have a chapter focused on the family interviews, but I figured that, aside from some differences in personality, they'd all be the same "I love my kid, I want them to come home, et cetera". So I decided for a twist. The interviews will be mentioned, but much more important in this chapter will be the mentors. Yes, for everyone hoping for a Lura POV, you finally get one! Also, you'll get to learn a lot more about the mentors of other tributes and such. _**

**_Sorry for any typos that might be present, a lot of this was rushed and written at night. As always, hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

><p><em>I<em>_n the Capitol . . ._

**Lura Carson**

"Lura? Lura, the next train for District 2 leaves in two hours." A hand on my shoulder, warm, an attempt at being comforting. "And I really think we should be on it."

As if from far away, I hear myself sigh and turn to look into the concerned face of Malkyte Schuyler. It's been four days, and it still feels like part of me isn't here in the present. No, it's replaying the events of four days ago over and over in my head, sitting helpless in front of a screen and watching as that monster from 4 forces Code to kill my sister. Rhine, oh God, Rhine, why did you have to die, why couldn't I have saved you, why-

"Psh, there'll be another train tomorrow." In terms of victor's voices I can recognise, this one is probably the easiest to identify, partly because of how much the speaker talks. Brown hair swinging out behind her, Kyrenne Taickerd slides over to our station in her office chair with a too-happy sparkle in her grey eyes. "You know where she needs to go?"

Malkyte frowns at the new arrival, fully understanding what she implies. With Kyrenne, it's never anything else. "No."

The District 5 victor pulls her lips together in a pout. "Aw, come on! We're all going, takin' some much needed time off!"

"Oh, really? And who's "we"?"

Kyrenne thinks for a moment, then turns around and shouts, "Oi, everyone, listen up! We're going to The Victor's Drink tonight, who's up for it?"

Her invitation rings through the control room and a few people turn her way, but none answer until a male mentor from 5, blond-haired and bearded Deeyen, stands and cheers. "Always!"

"Yeah, count me in." This comes from Xanner Bryne; raven black hair just long enough to tie back, beautiful blue eyes and one of the past District 4 victors. He pushes himself away from the desk and smiles. "I'd never miss a chance to watch you embarrass yourself."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Jerk." Xanner just laughs and Kyrenne turns away. "Come on, who else?"

It's no mystery where they're going; The Victor's Drink, one of the most popular bars in the Capitol due to its proximity to the Training Centre and the frequency with which the victors visit. It used to be called something else, but after Kyrenne won the 25th Hunger Games, well, they decided on a name change. Most of us rarely want to leave the control room for more than an hour or two, so all the businesses nearby profit the most, bars and pubs especially. At least, so I've heard. I've never joined my fellow victors in one of their little excursions before.

A few more people shout out agreements to go before Kyrenne turns back to Malkyte. "See? We're _all_ going, and you don't want to miss out! Have some fun once in a while, jeez."

Malkyte doesn't seem convinced, and I can guess why. After what happened four days ago, I wouldn't think Code's uncle would want to go out and have any sort of "fun". Four days ago . . . oh God. "I said _no_. Lura and I should really be heading back to District 2, the others left ages ago and-"

"Well, they'll just miss out on all the fun."

"_Kyrenne._" His tone is harsh and firm, leaving no room for argument. "Enough. Can't you see Lura is going through some hard times right now? She needs to be back home with her family, so they can grieve and comfort each-"

"I'll come."

Both turn to me, startled by my sudden outburst. I myself can't quite comprehend why I just spoke. _Did I . . . Did I really just agree to go to a bar with Kyrenne Taickard? What is wrong with me?_

Many things. Many things I . . . I can't think about right now. I need some sort of distraction, or I'll go insane. And I can't get on a train back home to face my family; not yet. "I'll come," I repeat, trying to push all thoughts from my head and focus on the present.

"Lura." Malkyte seems unsure, as though he's still not entirely certain it was me who spoke. "Are you sure?"

Kyrenne overcomes her surprise much quicker, and whacks my fellow mentor on the arm. "Of course she's sure! She's not a buzz kill, unlike a _certain_ District 2 victor I know." She jumps up off her chair and shoves it back towards the District 5 station. "All right everyone, move out!"

Fifteen mentors get up at her shout and start heading for the door, with ten staying behind. There are thirty-six victors in total, but once both your tributes are gone, it's incredibly depressing and rather pointless to stay, unless the president has certain . . . jobs for you to do, so most just take the train home. I've chosen not to leave yet, partly because I don't want to accept the fact that there's truly no reason to stay, and partly because I can't imagine facing my grieving family and knowing it was my failure as a mentor that caused their sadness.

Though I'm not entirely sure why Kyrenne and Deeyen have bothered staying until now, with their last tribute dying three nights ago. Though it probably has something to do with the ratio of alcohol available in the Capitol to that they can drink in District 5.

"Wait. New kid's coming too." As we head for the door, Kyrenne stops by the District 8 station and yanks the back of their only victor's shirt, pulling him away from the video screens. Isaac Lume is the most recent mentor, winning the Games just after mine. A milestone for District 8, who'd never had a tribute emerge victorious before. None of us know too much about this dark-haired, dark-skinned and dark-eyed tribute, and he's made it clear he doesn't ever plan on changing that; on the few occasions I'd tried to talk with him, I'd been met with silence and one or two words in response. In the beginning, I assumed this was just the usual Victor Isolation, a term coined by Kyrenne to describe how anti-social the new mentors are for the first few weeks after their win. You don't really feel like talking with anyone after you realise that twenty-three children had to die so you could live, some of which you personally murdered. Not to mention the fact that, in the arena, you can't trust anyone; getting over that suspicious, wary behaviour takes time.

But it's been nearly a year now, and with no attempt at pleasant conversation at all, I can only assume Isaac's reserved behaviour is part of his inherent personality. He'd certainly acted that way during his interviews, from what I can recall, but you can never tell; lots of tributes put on fake personas to get more sponsors. That's what everyone believes Rhine did.

"Why would I want to go?" The sixteen-year-old's tone isn't rude, exactly, but blunt and genuinely puzzled as to why Kyrenne would be asking him in the first place.

The District 5 mentor gestures to the door. "Because it's a bar," she says slowly, before pointing to herself. "And I'm going. And that makes for a party!"

"Or a hugely embarrassing scenario that can lead to lots of blackmail and teasing later," Xanner adds in. "Which is just as good."

Kyrenne whirls around. "Will you stop? You're not helping."

"Really? I thought we were trying to show him the fun aspects of going to the bar, and you making a fool of yourself is the highlight of the evening for me."

"You-" Kyrenne breaks off, glaring at the District 4 male and grumbling under her breath. Xanner's grin just grows.

"Can't think of an insult?"

"I will at some point!" she snaps back, before turning on her heel and storming towards the door, now dragging a surprised, disgruntled Isaac along with her.

"Hey, I said I didn't-" the boy begins to protest, but Kyrenne cuts him right off.

"Too bad. At this rate, you'll turn into a bigger party pooper than killjoy than Malkyte if we don't do something. And the more people I can sit at the table between me and _it_," she glares at Xanner, "the better."

"'It'?" He puts a hand over his heart. "You wound me."

"Sometimes I wish I could."

"Remind me why we're going again?" Malkyte sighs as we follow the bickering pair out the door of the control room and begin weaving our way through the halls of the Training Centre. I grin slightly, and the pain that spikes through my cheeks is shocking. It takes me a moment to realise the cause. My expressions over the past few days have been ones only comprised of sorrow and occasional anger at myself; I haven't smiled since Rhine . . .

_No!_ It's like the mention of her name alone is enough to send alarms blaring through my head, trying to clear all thoughts with jarring, blaring noise. _Don't think about it, don't go back to that place in your mind. The place filled with pain and depression. The place empty of hope that she might come home. Just focus on the present._

I take a deep breath, forcing all thoughts of . . . her from my mind. _Yes, that's it; concentrate on something else. _The blinding light of the sun as doors ahead of us open, its warmth on my skin as I step outside. The road, with cars whizzing by, and the flashing sign across it, signalling that the Victor's Drink is right across from us. My fellow victors as they wait at the crosswalk, most having conversations with those around them.

". . . well, spilling the blueberries wasn't my fault," comes Kyrenne's voice from somewhere up front.

Of course, it's Xanner who answers. "Oh, really? You going to blame that one on the tiny, magical gnome too?"

"I'd had a lot to drink! That bartender looked very, very small!"

"And magical. Don't forget magical."

"You know what, I . . ."

"How is it they can argue about anything without actually having something important to say?" Falcon Phlite, one of the District 6 mentors comes up beside Malkyte, shaking his head. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Remember the years before they won?" Argent, a District 1 victor nearby says wistfully. "The control centre was so _quiet_."

"Oi, we can hear everything you idiots are saying back there!" Kyrenne's shout comes from somewhere up front, making the three older victors around me peter off into quiet chuckles as we all cross the road. I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoy the company of the other mentors; throughout the Games, we don't really have much time to interact. But during the time where we don't bear the pressing responsibilities of keeping kids alive, we somehow managed to ignore things like district rivalries and who killed who's tribute during their Games. It's a difficult thing to adjust to at first, and there are a few exceptions, but eventually we all become close. After personally killing both tributes from 5, as well as the boy from 7 and the girls from 9 and 11, I was shocked to have their mentors welcome me into the victor circle as if I was just another person, not someone who had murdered kids they had known and probably cared for. But you learn over time that the best course of action is to put those things out of your minds.

_Like right now, _I think, trying to ignore the faces of dead tributes from my Games as they flash before my eyes. Always, always their ghosts haunt me at night; I can't allow them to affect me during my waking hours as well, or I might end up like poor Hazel from District 10, who rarely ever leaves her room in the Training Centre. _So just put them out of your mind, Lura, _I tell myself as little Volfa from 9's accusing expression appears in my head, blotting out the door of the Victor's Drink that should be clearly visible as we reach the edge of the road. _Ignore them. _Tirron Lomber's face fades into view instead, the District 7 boy alternating between glaring at me and coughing up blood. _Stop thinking, Lura. _Amber Pheeld, District 11. _Stop, that's enough. _Zap Kerrent, District 5._ No, don't-_

Micah Praetus, my own district.

No, please no. Why him, why him, why did he have to cross my mind now, with Rhine gone as well and I can't take it, I can't take it, I can't take being alone . . .

"Lura?" It's as though he can read my thoughts. Not a second after I feel myself beginning to slip through the grasp of sanity once more, Malkyte is there, and whatever slightly less serious expression he wore vanishes instantly, replaced only with concern and worry. "Lura?"

There's no point in asking whether I'm all right; we both know the answer. He's merely looking for some form of acknowledgement, a sign that I can hear him and register what he's saying. But I don't respond, can't comprehend the word, have only the ability to stare into the distance unseeing, though my mind's eye can see all too clearly. And it sees the faces of Micah and Rhine, together, both glaring at me with pure, absolute hatred. _You're disgusting, _they say, the words reverberating around my skull. _You let us die. No, you KILLED us. You. All you._

"Lura? That's it, I'm taking you home."

_This is your fault._

"No. Just leave her with me."

_Your fault._

"Splendor? What are you- No, never mind. I have to take Lura back right now."

_Your fault._

"Nothing you do will help; you've only proven yourself to be ridiculously incompetent over the past few days. I'll talk to her, and you'll see her inside shortly."

"I-"

"Leave, Schuyler."

_YOUR FAULT!_

"_Lura_."

It's the same word Malkyte spoke to first try and wake me from my grief, but the tone in which it's said is so harsh, so forceful that I can't help but register it. And with the name comes the tightness around my arms, as two hands grab me and give a short, sharp shake. I can still hear Rhine and Micah's voices in my head, but my vision clears slightly at the commanding gesture and voice, allowing me to see who truly stands in front of me: Splendor Gold, the youngest District 1 victor.

"Stop this. Right now. You're not helping anybody with this grief-stricken business." Splendor's lip twitches, morphing into what I might have considered a smirk, if it weren't so empty of humour. "And you're all about helping people, aren't you?"

"I-" What does she want me to say? I'm completely unaware that my thoughts of Rhine and Micah diminish slightly, replaced by confusion. Is she reprimanding me? What else have I done wrong?

"Schuyler lost his nephew in that same fight that killed your sister and he was the one who always pushed Code to volunteer. Schylla's only child died six days ago, all because she wanted to follow in his footsteps. How do you think _they're_ feeling?"

The comment stops me short as new faces come to mind, though these aren't the taunting, tormenting tributes I've killed. I haven't forgotten about Code – how could I with the circumstances of his death – but it had never really occurred to me that Malkyte would have been feeling the same guilt and grief I felt. Maybe even worse.

And, I'm ashamed to admit it, but in my worry for Rhine after the dragon, the younger, smiling tribute my sister had been so fond of almost entirely slipped my mind. _Cordelia_. Of course her father would have been an absolute wreck, but he has to stay strong and in control, because unlike myself, he's still got another tribute to look out for. How hard must it be, to watch and help the boy you'd subconsciously been hoping would die just so your daughter could come home to you?

Splendor's icy blue eyes are still trained on mine, and it feels as though she can read each new thought that races through my mind. Or maybe she's just good at discerning expressions, watching mine transform slowly from grief-stricken and traumatised to guilty and ashamed as I realise the terrible memories my behaviour must have dredged up for Malkyte and Michael.

"Exactly," she says, releasing her grip on my arms, but never letting the harshness out of her narrowed eyes, the thin line of her lips. "So either get over it or hide the grief away."

She turns away, heading for the door to the bar, but before she can grasp the handle I'm speaking again. "It's not just the grief."

Splendor stops in her tracks and even I'm stunned at what I just said. There has been something else, another fear poking at the back of my mind, but I've refused to acknowledge it. And now that I've just blurted it out, the thought threatens to take over my conscious mind. _No, no, it's not true,_ I keep thinking to myself. _Ignore it like before, ignore it, it's not true._

But Splendor won't let me forget it; she turns back and stares into my eyes, perhaps seeing the conflict within. "What else is there?"

"I-" No, I can't say it out loud, can't verbally recognise the fear because if I do, that means it's true and that means something is deeply, deeply wrong with me. And yet I went looking for this conversation, practically asked Splendor to question me on the fact. Because this one thought is going to tear me apart from the inside. I need someone to say I'm not a monster, that I'm fine, that I'm a wonderful person. Splendor Gold would never be found saying that. But at the same time . . . she's honest. And I guess I want the truth more, even if it completely ruins me.

So I take a deep breath and try to think up a way to express my fears, but all that ends up coming out of my mouth is, "I'm scared."

No sympathy, no surprise; Splendor's not one for letting her emotions, if she feels any, show. She just continues to stare. "Of?"

I open my mouth, hesitate, and close again. I shouldn't be talking about this; why would I even bring it up? Rhine is . . . Rhine is gone and I'm standing outside a bar fretting about myself. I should be back at the Centre, grieving or, or, remembering her in some way . . .

"_Lura_."

"I've been having dreams," I blurt out, as though getting the words out fast enough will save me from sinking into depression again. Usually it helps a bit, as it gives me something else to focus on, but in this case, the conversation we're having isn't one I want to think much about either.

Splendor rolls her eyes. "Don't we all. Please tell me nightmares about your Games aren't a new thing for you."

I shake my head, biting my lip like it can stop the words from coming. But of course I end up continuing anyways. "They're not about my Games. Not . . . not entirely. And they're not scary." The idea makes me break off and shudder. "At least, not at the time."

"I'm not psychic, Lura. You'll have to give me more than that." Still, despite her tone, she seems to be taking me slightly more seriously. But I can't say anything more; my own words have paralysed me. _They're not scary._ No, no, they're not. They're _satisfying_. That's the worst part.

"The District 4 girl . . ." is all I can get out before I have to stop.

For better or for worse though, Splendor understands what I mean. "Ah." Her cold, humourless smirk is back on her face as she asks her next question. "And just how many times a night do you kill Meredith in your dreams?"

The bluntness with which she speaks makes me flinch; hearing it out loud is far worse than having thoughts in my head. "It's just like my Games," I whisper, though it doesn't feel like me talking; if I was in control, I'd stop right now, because I don't want to hear this, don't want to say my unconscious desires out loud and make them even harder to deny. "Only instead of the others, it's-it's Meredith. And I can feel the enjoyment, the happiness when I kill . . . when I do it, and it happens in so many different ways and . . ."

"You're angry. She killed you're sister," Splendor says curtly, as though dreams of murdering others are ridiculously common and not worth worrying over.

"I don't want to be a monster again."

For a moment, I don't even realise I spoke aloud; the words were so quiet, it felt as though they were only an echo floating through my head. But Splendor's reaction says differently. Always one to guard her emotions carefully, but that doesn't stop her from raising an eyebrow in surprise. Who knows, maybe other feelings are coursing through her, but if they are, I can't tell. I'm too occupied with my own thoughts and fears.

"A monster," Splendor says slowly, and I find myself unable to even look at her, instead focusing on my simple black shoes as they shuffle nervously about the sidewalk. "You mean how you were in your Games." It's not a question, and I don't bother answering; already I can feel myself slipping back into a nonresponsive state, focusing only on the ghosts come to haunt me. Until something jolts me out of it.

Splendor _laughs_.

"Please, get over yourself."

The words are like sandpaper against my nerves and for one brief, brief second, I feel something flair up inside me, something that isn't sadness or anger at myself. No, this is anger at Splendor, at this haughty District 1 victor who seems to think she's above emotions. Rhine wouldn't stand here and take this, she'd be lashing out with some sort of snarky remark, always ready to engage in duels of insults and wits. Rhine would put Splendor in her place.

But I am not my sister, could never be, no matter how much I look like her. So instead of arguing, instead of snapping back, all I manage is a quiet, "You don't understand."

Which only seems to make the situation worse. Splendor gives another disparaging snort and shakes her head. "I don't understand? Well, of course, Little Miss Perfect Lura must be right. After all, it's not like me or anyone in there," she jerks her thumb toward the window of the bar, "has gone through the Games as well."

The nickname stings, but the truth of her words is worse. Now that she's said it out loud, I realise what I must have sounded like and try desperately to correct my mistake. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, that's exactly what you meant, and that's exactly why I decided to have this little talk with you. You go around, acting all nice and wonderful and saying things like "I was a monster when I killed people in the Games" and pretty soon you'll have all thirty-six victors sinking back into depression." Splendor leans in close, her eyes shining dangerously and while my first instinct is to step back, another reflex, one I've attempted to repress for two years, is telling me to wait for her attack, dodge out of the way and drive my fist into her jaw. "I may not have been around for much longer than you, but I've learned a lot more. Every victor in that bar, plus the ones back at the centre, plus the ones who've already gone home fight day and night with the fear that they're cold, heartless monsters. We don't need anyone reminding us of it."

"I'm not trying to remind anyone of it," I protest weakly, "I just . . . you don't know what I did in the Games, I'm not like the other victors, I've done worse, I-"

"Oh, I know what you've done, and do not think you're allowed to wallow in self-pity because of it. People have done much worse."

I shake my head, tearing my gaze away from Splendor's icy eyes to stare back down at the pavement. "Whatever you think I've done, it's not-"

"You're talking about killing your district partner, yes?"

The shock hits me like a train as her statement registers and I jerk my head up to gape in horror at the knowing look on her face. How could she- "How-?"

"Your face once it happened," Splendor explains casually, as though we're not discussing the tragic death of an innocent boy. "The sadness was there, but the surprise wasn't. Didn't take a genius to figure it out, although none of the other mentors seemed to pick up on it."

_The sadness_ . . . Yes, of course the sadness would have been there. Micah had grown to become one of my greatest friends during our week in the Capitol; quiet yet kind, the complete opposite of your normal District 2 male tribute. I guess we both we both were.

Ours was a strange year, for numerous reasons. One, there were no volunteers in 2. The whole district had been hit hard with an awful flu; not deadly, but those that caught it weren't exactly up for a fight to the death. And those that weren't sick were left unsure as to whether or not they wanted to volunteer, partly due to the gory deaths of our tributes the year before, and partly because of the president's announcement before the Games.

"_This may not be a Quarter Quell,"_ he'd said. _"But make no mistake, these Games will be special. The tributes will be put to the ultimate test, and should they fail, the consequences shall be . . . gruesome."_

I think the message had been mostly to threaten the districts into obedience; after thirty-five years of Games, people were starting to get restless. Not that we had problems in District 2, but before I won the Games my father worked in the shipping department with all of our exports and the Capitol citizens who ran the trains had been all over the country, and weren't particularly careful about what they said. They talked of small acts of rebellion, mostly in Districts 8 and 12, which were both tired of sending their children off to slaughter without ever getting one back.

Whatever the reason, both Micah and I had no willing volunteers as we were reaped, and right from the start I knew he'd be my greatest ally. Not arrogant, like both District 1 tributes, not sly like Oshin, the boy from 4, or hostile, like his district partner. No, there was just sweet, honest, kind Micah. Until he went insane.

The Capitol had made good on their promise that these Games would be particularly gruesome; the entire concept seemed to be based around choices. Make the right choice, you could wind up with a weapon, some food, maybe even medical supplies. Make the wrong choice, and you'd find your way to certain doom.

The arena itself was quite different; at the beginning of the Games, our plates rose not around the Cornucopia, but with each of us in a separate hallway. It was up to the tribute to choose whether to go left or right; one led outside to a bountiful forest and the Cornucopia, and the other led to a booby-trapped basement with all manner of horrific ways to kill people. I'd luckily chosen right the first time, but I'd heard about it afterwards from Gleam, our District 1 female ally, and Micah, who'd both picked the wrong path, that it had been awful. They'd barely managed to get out and meet up with us.

That was when I first began to see the cracks in my district partner.

What truly broke him was the maze. The Capitol seems fond of those; something similar to what we endured was engineered for the 37th Games, and stumbled upon by the trio from 5, 6 and 7. This one, though, was less about fairytales and more about making gruesome, terrible decisions to get out alive. We'd been unwillingly split up into pairs, me with Dymend from 1, Oshin with Micah and Gleam with Ryla from 4.

Ours was the first group to get out, with minor injuries; another example of what I thought was my incredible luck. Once we saw Gleam and Ryla though, our hearts had sunk. Ryla was missing her entire left arm and Gleam could barely walk; she'd been forced to drink some sort of poison that had started out making her feel queasy and ended with vicious boils and delusional hallucinations. But worse had been Micah and Oshin. Or rather, Micah. Oshin had died somewhere back within the maze.

I don't know whether it was our ally's death or the obstacles he'd been forced to overcome alone after the fact, but something had broken inside Micah. With the Careers as they were, it was almost too easy for him to lash out at Gleam, killing her instantly with his sword before moving onto Ryla. None of us were in any shape to fight, but that hadn't stopped Dymend from locking blades with Micah and giving me the time I needed to run.

When I'd heard the cannon mere minutes later, I hadn't been entirely sure who I was hoping had died. My sane, albeit conceited and irritating ally? Or my insane friend?

So I hadn't been sure what to think when Dymend's face flashed across the sky, and was even more conflicted a few days later when I found Micah, half-buried under a ton of rock. The dangerous insanity had left him, though now he was out of his mind with grief and pain. And because he was my friend, because I'd killed the boy from 5 only hours before and didn't think I had it me to watch the life drain from another set of accusing eyes, I had tried to help him.

But it had become clear very quickly that my district partner could no longer be my ally; now he was only a burden, try as I had to see him in a different light. His screams and cries had attracted unwanted attention, leading to the fight that had ended in the death of the girl from 11. And I'd known that if one person had been drawn to us, more would come as well; most tributes had some sort of grudge against the Careers, and to have seen us then, the remains of the Pack so useless, would have been an opportunity for revenge too good to pass up.

Then there'd been the fact that Micah had not, as I'd originally thought, gotten over the insanity that had driven him to murder his allies. When he hadn't been begging for forgiveness from unseen ghosts, he'd act as though he was back in the maze, and I was one of the obstacles to get past. He'd nearly stabbed me once when my back was turned, before I made sure to store our meagre supply of weapons away more carefully. And still, I had tried to help him, though my efforts seemed almost half-hearted, especially with the discovery I'd made a few hours after I'd found him.

Blood poisoning is a fairly common thing in the Hunger Games, and has led to the deaths of many a tribute, due to the fact that it's practically impossible to treat without interference from the Capitol. The source of the infection was from Micah's ankle and though I didn't know if he received the injury during his fight with Dymend or some other tribute after he'd killed all our allies, I did know that he'd only last a few days without some sort of Capitol gift.

To my disgust, I hadn't been entirely sad at the thought.

So I had spent a day tending his wounds and whispering empty reassurances, while telling myself at night that if we could just hide from any other tributes and avoid any instances with Micah might try to kill me, my district partner would sadly pass away in a few days and I'd be free. The thought was followed with an instantaneous scolding, but I couldn't help my desire to be out in the arena, unburdened. I wasn't a bad person, I had told myself. I did what any good, loyal district partner would do and if he was going to die from some other infection then it wasn't my fault.

My luck ran out after the boy from 7 found us.

I'd killed him, of course, but he'd put up a bit more of a fight than the girl from 9 and I'd suffered because of it. It had been the second day since I'd found Micah and while he wasn't getting any better, I was getting worse; no sleep, barely any food, and now added cuts across my stomach and forearm to deal with. But I'd just kept telling myself that I only needed to put up with this for a few more days, just a few more days and I'd be free, without the murder of my district partner on my conscience. Because it wasn't murder, was it? I'd done everything I could to help him.

The Capitol had detected my struggles however, and I'd been lured out of the copse where we stayed and into what I'd thought at first was a Gamemaker trap. The reality had been much worse.

In the middle of the forest, there'd been a table, a table with two slim, silver needles on it. Both had white stickers wrapped around the vials, clearly labelling them as what they'd been. _Antidote_, one had said. And _Poison_, had said the other.

At first the choice had seemed simple. My heart had soared upon realising I had the antidote to the blood poisoning, that I could save my district partner. I hadn't even given the poison a second glance. But as soon as my hand has stretched out towards the needle I wanted, something registered inside my mind, causing me to freeze in my tracks.

The antidote would help Micah's blood poisoning, but it'd have no effect on his sanity. If I healed him, I'd still have a crazed, semi-murderous district partner to look after, only then he'd have no wounds slowing him down when he tried to kill me again. But poison was murder, murder of someone who had once been my friend. I'd done many things in the arena, but could I stoop to that?

And I couldn't just ignore the vials; now that the Capitol had given me a possible way to heal Micah, it would have been murder as well just to walk away from them. I'd felt as though the entire country was waiting with baited breath for me to make my decision, wondering if the sweet girl who'd gone into the Games and had made the change so easily into a killer would still do the right thing and save her district partner.

That's what had halted my decision. Micah was a huge, loud burden at best, and a murderous one at worse; the more I'd begun to think about it, the more that poison vial had begun to look like a suitable choice. The only thing stopping me from using it had been the thought that my parents, my friends and everyone else in the world would be watching to see if I turned out to be a horrible monster or good person.

Yet no matter how often I replayed the scenarios in my head, I could never find a way where I'd win the Games and save Micah. One way or another, he had to die if I wanted to get home. Wouldn't it be easier if I did it then, with poison, quick and painless rather than allowing him to heal from his injuries and fight him when he got into one of his murderous rages?

But everyone had been watching. And while the decision might be right, other might not have seen it that way.

So I'd gone to the pond I'd known was near our camp; though it was more of a small lake, with its clear blue waters and the little waterfall that flowed into it. There was a thin ledge of rock behind the cascading water, just barely large enough for a person to walk by if they'd been willing to test fate and brave the slippery stone, not to mention getting soaked in the process. I'd discovered it first a few hours before I'd found Micah, when I'd been forced back into it by the blows of the District 5 boy's mace. It was a dangerous terrain to fight in, and there were numerous times when the two of us nearly slipped off the ledge. The funny thing was, though, during the whole ordeal it seemed as if the Capitol almost _wanted _us out of there. At one point, a heavy wind came from behind me, trying to force the two of us off the ledge and back onto the grass. Another time, the roar of the waterfall began to get louder and louder until we could barely hold our weapons, minds pounding from the noise. Eventually I'd managed to push my opponent back, getting us both off the ledge before I'd driven my sword through his throat. But I'd still wondered why the Capitol had wanted us off so badly, and eventually, after glancing back at the ledge, I'd decided it was a place where none of their cameras could reach, get a good shot of the fight. Of course they'd have hated it if they'd been unable to capture the gory death of even one tribute.

So that was where I went with the vials, inching my way onto the ledge and making sure I was well hidden from the forest (and its many hidden cameras). There, water spraying in my face and chilling me to the bone, I switched the labels on the needles.

When I returned to our camp later and gave the injection to Micah, everyone assumed I was the loyal, forgiving district partner. His death, they all said, was due to the outstanding pain of his injuries, and not my fault; I'd tried my hardest to save him.

But I hadn't.

And the worst part was, I'd been fine with that. My only concern had been the fact that others might consider me a monster; I myself hadn't cared about killing Micah, if it meant survival in the Games. The night after I won was spent tossing and turning, with plenty of horrified tears. I'd never been a nice person; I'd just wanted everyone to think I was.

Splendor knows, though, knows the truth. So why does her expression seem so off? I've pictured this day so many times in my head, pictured the disdain and disgust people would feel when they realised what I did. But Splendor's contempt appears to be for different reasons.

"So you killed him. Big deal." Her words are so shocking it almost takes my breath away, but at the same time I almost revel in the lack of horror in her tone. She's not angry with me; she doesn't think I'm a monster. "That tends to happen in the Games. It's called self-preservation, Lura, and anyone who doesn't have it is an idiot. Your mistake wasn't killing him; it was thinking that afterwards you could go back to being Little Miss Sweetheart." Something flickers in Splendor's eyes as she continues, "Because if you don't harden yourself past the point of caring, they'll break you like a twig. If not the memories, if not the ghosts, than the Capitol, eventually."

"B-but if I don't care," I begin, not entirely sure what I'm trying to say. "If I don't care than I-I'm a terrible, h-horrible-"

"_Enough_." Splendor may never show compassion, or gratitude, but she seems to have no problem letting anger into her tone. Which she does now, so sharply that I stop stuttering immediately. "You like to pity yourself? You like to think you're a bad person? Well, why don't I tell you a story? The Capitol seems to be fond of those this year." She's practically spitting her words out, the venom in her voice so tangible that I almost step back. "It's a story you might have heard before, when you were around, oh, what, ten? You've clearly forgotten it though. Or maybe you were just too young to fully understand."

Liquid ice seeps into my veins as I realise what she's talking about. Seven years ago, when I was ten, Splendor won her Hunger Games. I have vague memories, but I made a point to avoid watching the Games if I could, and forget what I'd seen when I couldn't.

"So, once upon a time," Splendor begins, and there's a dangerous light in her eyes, a furious light, though I'm not sure whether the anger is aimed at me still, or herself. "That's how they all begin, right? Once upon a time there was a little girl, fifteen years old with long, golden curls and sharp, sapphire blue eyes. But she wasn't pretty, no, her cheekbones were too sharp, her chin too pointed, her lips curled too often in an angry scowl. Prettiness was for her older sister, Florelle. This little girl was intelligent too, but of course, not the most intelligent. That was for another older sister: Teiya. And this girl didn't have many friends either, because that was for the twins: Aunia and Daven.

"You see, this little girl was very little indeed; the youngest, in fact, of five children. But parents aren't supposed to choose favourites, so it was good, because her parents loved them all equally. Which is to say, not at all. The family was not raised on love and kindness, but power and pride, and what could give a person more power and pride than winning the Hunger Games?

"The parents had been too old when the tradition of the Games began, but their children were perfectly eligible. And so they trained. Night and day, never a pause, never a rest, just train, train, train and win. Florelle volunteered first, and eighteen, and the little girl was just thirteen, ready to watch her big sister go off and win the Games. The girl was resentful, of course, because she knew Florelle would win all the glory, but her turn would come eventually and then others would finally know her as more than the sister of so-and-so.

"Florelle died. Fifth place, but there's no prize for that, is there? There was shock at first, but the four remaining siblings refused to let that deter them, especially the little girl. Because the others had lives outside of training, but she was nothing in the district, nothing but a girl with smart and pretty and outgoing siblings who would always be better than her. Unless she trained hard.

"Teiya's turn came and went, and another body was sent back to the family. By this time the parents had begun to get harsher, severer. All of their friends were related to victors or had friends for victors, and it was always an awkward time for the girl's parents when they went out to social gatherings and heard, "Did you hear about the scandal with Julius Felfet? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don't get to Victor's Village much." The parents had tried inserting themselves into a social class where they were vastly inferior, and as such they needed their ticket to equality with these people. And by ticket, I mean they needed a winning child.

"Aunia's was the most embarrassing. She'd volunteered at seventeen, so that her brother could volunteer a year later, and the whole of District 1 was appalled when she died in the bloodbath. Always headstrong, always fiercely ignorant, she'd been taunting and teasing the little thirteen-year-old from 10, oblivious to the approach of her victim's district partner. 10 really had a pair of opposites that year; a quivering, scared little girl and a hulking, massive farmer's son. He'd caved Aunia's skull in with one punch. Funny how it was his district partner, Hazel, the weak one, who had gone on to win the 29th annual Hunger Games.

"That was what had rocked the balance of District 1. To have a tribute die so early, killed by an outlier and have a _thirteen_-year-old win the Games? It was an unrivalled embarrassment. The little girl's family, once respected for having five strong children to fight for honour, was now a joke. And the little girl was glad. She thought that if everyone was disgusted with her sisters and their failures, they'd stop thinking of the girl as Florelle's sibling or Teiya's sibling or Aunia's sibling. She'd finally stand out and she wouldn't even have to participate in the Hunger Games to do it.

"But that didn't happen. Instead of being sidelined and forgotten like before, now she was ridiculed and insulted for her sisters' failures. Most people still hadn't even bothered to learn her name. So she realised the Hunger Games were still her only option.

"She was only sixteen when the 30th Hunger Games rolled around, but she didn't figure it mattered. She wasn't willing to wait another year or two, especially not if her brother was still planning on volunteering that year. Either way, that'd be awful: if he won, he'd steal her glory and if he lost, she'd be humiliated even more. So on reaping day, when everyone lined up in the square and the escort called out a name, the girl ran forward like all the others. But the knowledge that she could not fail made her faster; like the Games, the volunteering system doesn't give condolence prizes to second place. So the girl ran, sprinting around all those who would oppose her and throwing the occasional punch if she needed to. And she made it.

"Then the escort called the boy's name and as usual, the volunteers came racing forward. One made it; one all too familiar. Turned out the girl's brother had wanted to volunteer, and wasn't going to stop just because his sister had as well. He was eighteen, after all; it was his last year.

"What a momentous day in District 1, to have two siblings both volunteer and win the position of tribute. Conversations roared throughout the square as everyone wondered: what would these two do if only one could live?

"The girl's brother had it all figured out, as he told her on the train later that day. He said he was fine with them both being allies, as they were expected to be members of the Career Pack, but their sibling bond would have no effect on their relationship in the Games. The girl cried and appeared so sad at the idea; inwardly, she'd had the thought the moment her idiot brother stepped up to the stage.

"The Capitol training days came and both siblings stuck with the Career Pack, which was larger that year with additional tributes from 5 and 9. All throughout the week, the girl sat by her allies, learning with them, speaking and laughing with them. And when the time came for the Games to begin, and the gong ran out and the boy from 1 came up to her during the bloodbath asking for help defeating the girl from 11, she stabbed him in the heart and ran.

"The other Careers didn't seem to have realised this, for later that day when they set up camp, none were raging about her betrayal; most were just wondering where she'd gone. Her brother had been the one to answer, saying she might have gotten scared and run off; she could be weak at times, he'd said. The others shook their heads in sadness at the thought of another lost ally and went to sleep, none aware that the girl they spoke of was hiding just outside their camp, listening to every word.

"She followed them for two weeks during the Games, letting them kill off outliers while she'd murder any Career who separated from the Pack too long. Eventually, when only the girl's brother and the boy from 4 remained, they broke the alliance with violent swings of their weapons, each claiming the other had killed the rest of the Careers. The girl had left them to their fight and later that night, when the District 4 boy's face flashed across the sky, she realised there were only five people left in the Games.

"The other three were outliers, from 3, 5 and 8. She'd taken care of the two girls easily, but it was seventeen days into the Games when she heard the cannon and saw the face of the boy from 3 in the sky. Her brother must have taken care of him. Which meant they were the only two left.

"Of course the Capitol pushed them together, and the boy seemed surprised when he found her standing in the field across from him, though he should have known. As he came towards her, the girl broke down, sobbing and blubbering about how she could never beat him, she didn't even know how she'd made it that far and could he please just do it quickly. She expected him to laugh, to brag about his superior skill; he'd always been an inconsiderate jerk at home. But instead, he just stared at her, something not unlike compassion in his eyes. Suddenly, he dropped to his knees and hugged her, nodding and promising he'd make it fast and painless. The girl was stunned, for an instant, genuinely stunned. Then she remembered her plan and rammed her hidden dagger into his stomach."

It feels as though someone has just rammed a dagger in _my_ stomach with all the shock I feel and the churning, repulsive sensation I feel in my gut. Splendor watches me closely, and smirks grimly when she finds I'm unable to keep the horror out of my expression. "It didn't kill him, not right away," she says, though it's not in the same, deadly voice she used for most of the story. Now she just sounds tired and resigned. "It took another stab to his heart before the cannon fired. So you see, Lura, there are worse things than killing your crazy former friend who wants to murder you." She turns away from me, heading back towards the bar door. "Remember that next time you're wallowing in self-pity."

I shouldn't push the conversation, really shouldn't say anything, but my fear is still present and it makes me speak without thinking. "And my dreams about the District 4 girl?"

"Natural," Splendor says, walking away. "It's the desire for revenge, to kill someone who doesn't deserve to live. It's a human instinct." Her hand is on the door handle now and I swear she's finished, but I just manage to catch the quiet addition of. "I have thoughts about killing my brother's murderer every day.

It takes me a second to realise what she means, and by that time she's already disappeared inside not allowing me to say . . . what? An apology? A thank you? Maybe it's better she left.

I stand outside the bar, taking a few deep breaths in anticipation of going inside. Splendor's right; I've been acting like I'm the worst person alive, moaning and groaning and making everyone feel awful. The thought of my actions during my Games still sickens me, but I can hide that away, deal with it later. Right now, as selfish as it may be to ignore my sister's death, I just want to forget about everything.

"There she is!" Kyrenne's shout rings through the bar as I open the door and step inside. It's much darker than outside with the bright sun, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust before the long table and all its occupants fades into view. There's an empty chair next to Malkyte, across from Isaac, who's looking rather irritated; understandable, as Kyrenne's on his one side and Xanner's on his other. Splendor's all the way down at the other end of the table and I give her a slight nod as I walk past, hoping she understands what I'm trying to say. That I understand what she means, that she's actually really helped me, and thank you.

"You guys took _forever_," Kyrenne says as I sit down. "What were you doing out there? Wait." She snaps her fingers and frowns. "You were having girl talk, weren't you? Why wasn't I invited? I'm never invited to these kinds of things."

"Probably because you'd be the worst person to talk to. Ever," Xanner puts in.

"What?! That's ridiculous! I'm a fantastic conversationer!"

"That's not even a word."

And they're off again, completely forgetting about me and the poor District 8 boy in between them as they shout over him. I have to smile slightly at the two mentors' antics.

"Are you all right?" Malkyte leans over to me as the two continue their argument, his face filled with concern and my heart wrenches at the thought of all the unnecessary grief I'd put him through. He couldn't even mourn his nephew properly, he'd have been too busy worrying about me.

"Yes," I say, and it's surprising how genuine it sounds. Yes, it's still not one hundred percent true, but no longer does it sound like the forced lie I'd been repeating for the past three days. "Actually, yes." It feels so good to say, like the word itself can alleviate some of the pain in my heart. "So, what did I miss?"

"Well, we were going to wait for you and Splendor. You can see how long that resolve lasted," Malkyte says, nodding his head towards the glasses already present in front of the others. "Do you want anything?"

"Am I allowed?" Back in District 2, we're technically not supposed to drink until we're nineteen, ineligible for the reapings; the mayor made the law in the hopes that we'd produce better Careers if they weren't getting drunk in their spare time. Different districts have different rules though, and some don't bother with any at all.

"Are you kidding?" The fighting between Kyrenne and Xanner stops as they hear my words, and the District 5 victor turns towards me with a huge smile on her face. "It's the Capitol. You're a victor. You can do anything!"

"Ignoring the obvious falseness of that statement," Xanner adds, earning another glare from Kyrenne, "yeah, you're fine. What do you want?"

"Um . . . what is there?"

Both pause for a moment, taking in my words, then Kyrenne stands, glass in hand. "Attention, everyone!" she shouts, causing quite a few people around the bar to look over, though most of the victors know by now that ignoring her is usually the best course of action. "We have a first-time drinker on our hands. First-time drinker, everyone! Now calm down, calm down, nobody freak out-"

"You're the only one freaking out," Xanner responds from his chair.

"Shut up," she says, pointing an unsteady finger in his direction. "I will not allow you to ruin this for me. I mean, for Lura." She looks down at me and grins. "So, what do you want?"

"She already said she doesn't know what there is." Xanner chuckles and leans back in his chair. "Do you ever pay attention to anyone?"

"Sorry, didn't catch that. Anyways, Lura, what do you like?"

For a mentor, she's not great at explaining things. I look from Kyrenne to Malkyte, who's shaking his head and rubbing his temples. "Um . . ."

"There's a menu in front of you," Xanner says, indicating the card lying on the table. "Take a look."

I haven't held the menu for more than two seconds when Kyrenne sits back down and starts pointing at it. "Ooh, ooh, try a Zombie."

"Are you kidding?" Xanner asks incredulously. "No, that's disgusting." He turns to me and adds, "Never listen to Kyrenne."

"Oh yeah?" she says, attempting to cross her arms while still holding her drink. "Well, what do _you_ suggest?"

"A strawberry daiquiri."

"Oh, boo! What are you, a teenage girl?"

"No, but Lura is and this is her first time drinking."

"You think she can't handle something stronger?"

"I just don't think she should be listening to you considering what happened last time we came here."

"You just will not let that go, will you?"

"Can I get you anything, dear?"

The waitress appears at my side without warning, and I nearly jump at her sudden arrival. "Um, I'll have . . ." I throw another glance at the menu, but while I want to try and forget about everything that came up in my conversation with Splendor, I'm not sure that would be the best way to do it. "A water, please."

If the waitress is surprised at all at my choice, she doesn't show it. "Sure." She looks over at Isaac, who has his arms crossed and is sitting as far down in his seat as he can while Xanner and Kyrenne argue over him. "You still don't want anything?"

His dark eyes flit upwards and he shakes his head, so she heads off back to the bar. I glance across the table at Isaac, deciding to try again for a conversation with him. "Not one for alcohol either, huh?" I ask, trying for a casual, welcoming smile.

All I get in response, however, is a shake of the head before his eyes return to his lap, arms still locked tightly across his chest as though he needs some physical presence to block himself from the rest of us. I sigh quietly at yet another failed attempt at making him feel comfortable before a sound reaches my ears that makes me, and all the others victors at our table fall silent.

They always play a five-note jingle before Caesar Flickerman makes an appearance on television, during which time they can also flash the Capitol seal. I didn't notice when I first walked in, but there are four TV sets suspended above the bar, and each now display the grinning face of Panem's most famous interviewer.

"Hello, citizens of Panem! I hope you're all excited tonight because we've got one heck of a show for you! The face off between the tributes Dylian Carte and Perrin Bellerose two days ago was a real nail biter, but we all knew only one could come out on top! And what a surprise when one did! I don't know about you folks, but I was changing my mind on who would win every few minutes! He swings, he dodges, both nearly fall to their doom!" Caesar's monologue is interspersed with footage from last night's battle, and while the other Capitol citizens in the bar are entranced by the TV, all us mentors turn away. Though that doesn't stop us from hearing the disgusting _squelch_ as Dylian is sliced clean through by the clock's blade. "What a show! Now, I don't know if you realise this, ladies and gentlemen, but the moment Dylian Carte died on that clock was the moment the tribute count was cut down to eight. Eight! Which means, that's right folks, it's time for the family interviews!"

Quite a few audible groans rise up from our table as everyone takes in the meaning of Caesar's words. Now the lack of action in the arena yesterday and today makes sense; the Gamemakers wanted to make sure no one died before the interviews were broadcast.

"Oh, change the channel!" Kyrenne yells, half-standing before Michael, seated on her other side, yanks her back down.

"Ignore her," Xanner calls to the bartender, who glanced curiously in our direction.

"What? No, don't ignore me! I don't want these things on, they'll kill the mood!"

Though it's highly unlikely the people here will change the channel, Kyrenne's words are also true. The further your tribute gets, the more heart-breaking it is when they die, but it's the absolute worst if they manage to get into the final eight. Then you have the memory of the child's family members crying and praying for their kid to return home safely as you watch them die in the arena.

Despite Kyrenne's protest, I can hear the interviews continue on the TV screen behind me, and though I hate watching them, I can't help but look. The Games has that hypnotic effect on all of us; most often it's awful and horrible and yet we can't tear ourselves away.

First off, Caesar's interviewing the District 1 boy, Achilles's family. Onscreen, inside what looks like a small jewellery shop, an old woman holds two young children on her lap as she's asked questions.

"What's your name, ma'am?" Caesar asks.

"Abalone," she replies.

"Wonderful, wonderful. And these little darlings?"

"Quinne and Deimos. Their twins." The girl smiles and looks up at her name, but the boy stays entranced by Caesar's rainbow-coloured hair.

"They're adorable," Caesar says, giving Deimos a little wave. "So how are you related to Achilles?"

"Oh, I'm not; I'm just taking care of his children while he's away."

"He has no other family members to help out with that instead?"

"No, the poor boy's parents died in an accident when he was young. All he has now is his godfather."

It's impossible to miss the tensing in her jaw as she says the word "godfather". Even Kyrenne seems to pick up on it, as she looks down the length of the table, scanning each victor's face. "Zeus isn't here now, is he?"

"No," Xanner replies, and she nods.

"Good." She turns to Michael Schylla sitting next to her. "All right, spill it."

The District 1 victor's emerald eyes were trained determinedly on the table, trying to avoid having to look at the television where I'm sure he wishes his interview was passing instead. But at Kyrenne's words, he looks up, confused. "Spill what."

"The beans about Zeus. I heard he set his kid up to be reaped."

Xanner whacks her on the arm, a somewhat awkward gesture as Isaac is still in between them. "You can't just say that out loud," he hisses, looking over at a couple seated nearby, who've stopped their conversation to listen.

"Why not? You were the one who told me about it."

Xanner brings a hand to his head. "And now it'll be all over next month's victor tabloids. Great job."

"Where did you hear about that?" Michael asks sharply, though he shouldn't be all that surprised; Xanner, along with two other District 4 mentors Lyna and Jetty, are the three people who somehow seem to know everything that goes on in the victor circle. All the gossip seems to stem from them.

"Well, the girls told me about some of it," Xanner says, nodding his head down the table to where Lyna and Jetty sit, both looking slightly abashed. "And Achilles's stylist said something about Zeus owing the president a favour for something that happened on reaping day.

Kyrenne cocks her head, curious. "When were you talking to his stylist?"

Xanner hesitates, and for the first time tonight, his carefree, joking demeanor falters. "At night," is all he answers with, and it's enough for everyone to know what he's talking about. I myself haven't been summoned by the president for little jobs, probably due to my age, but I've heard enough stories from Malkyte and the other District 2 victors still young enough to appeal to Capitol citizens in a sexual way. Most of them start once they hit eighteen, which means I've only got one more year of safety. The thought makes my stomach churn.

"All right, it's true," Michal says, sighing as Kyrenne turns back to him. "He told the escort ahead of time whose name to read out, no matter which slip she chose."

A few of the victors sit back in shock, our eyes all returning to the TV screen, where Abalone's interview is replaced by Zeus's.

"I've trained Achilles since he was a boy," the gruff, older mentor tells Caesar. "Taught him everything I knew. And if it was enough for me to win, I'm sure it'll be more than enough for him."

"So what, does he hate the kid?" Kyrenne asks as the pair onscreen begin to discuss how Achilles came to live with Zeus.

"No," Michael says, staring bitterly at Zeus. "He just wanted Achilles to win the Games and he knew the boy'd never volunteer on his own. He wanted so badly for his child to follow in his footsteps that he was willing to send him into the Games without nearly enough training, fully knowing that he wouldn't be able to help her as soon as she set foot on that metal plate, and once she was in the arena. . ."

He trails off, finally realising the switch he made from "him" to "her". The others have all noticed it too, and are letting their eyes wander anywhere but Michael's face, lest he see the pity and sadness within. Spending time with everyone, you learn very quickly who accepts sympathy and who hates it. Most of the District 1 victors are in the latter category.

"I should go," Michael says suddenly, rising from the table and quickly heading for the door. The rest of us watch him leave, unsure what to say or who to say it to. Like I said, we try our hardest to avoid discussing the Games and any deaths they result in, for fear of awkward silences and worse, dredging up unwanted memories. Unconsciously, everyone looks towards Kyrenne; sometimes she may pick the wrong moment to do it, but she's always ready to try and lighten the mood.

Which she does, seizing the opportunity as our waitress comes back with my drink. "Water, Lura? Really? I'm so ashamed!"

"Better she drink that then what you were suggesting," Xanner retorts, and they're off again, dissipating the tension to everyone's relief. I think back to Falcon and Argent's comments earlier on the two of them. Yes, Kyrenne and Xanner's endless arguing can be irritating at times, but I have a feeling that before they won their Games, the victors were a whole lot more sombre.

"And anyways, I- Holy crap."

Kyrenne's words leave me curious, and I follow her gaze to the TV set, where what I'm assuming the boy from 4's family is being interviewed. "How does one person have that many family members?"

It's true. There are one, two, ten of them onscreen: what I'm assuming are two parents, the girl Perrin volunteered for and a dark-haired boy standing protectively next to her, another woman who shares the same thin nose and dimples as Perrin, and who holds a young child in her arms while two older ones stand near her feet, and finally a woman and man standing off to the side, seeming out of place with the rest of the group, save the woman's bronze hair that matches Perrin's exactly.

"They can't be all family, right?" Kyrenne asks as they begin to introduce themselves. Armande, Calandre, Bettany, Sandrine . . . I just can't keep track of them all. "I mean, some of them must be friends."

"Nope," Xanner says, watching the mother as she tells Caesar how much Perrin helps the family and how she just wishes he were home. The District 4 mentor bites his lip and sighs. "Kid told me all about them during interview prep. The three little ones," he points to the younger children, "are that one's," his finger jabs at the woman holding the baby, "kids. I'm pretty sure she's Perrin's sister, along with those two," more pointing, this time at the two girls standing next to the men. "Oh, and those boys are their boyfriends or husbands. I don't remember which."

Kyrenne stares at him blankly. "I don't understand."

"'s not as bad as my family interviews, I'm sure," Jetty says from down the table. She frowns thoughtfully, counting on her fingers. "I'd have had my mom, dad, both grandmothers and my grandpa, my five cousins, four siblings and all of their kids, not to mention my friends. . ."

Lyna grins at the expression on Kyrenne's face. "We in District 4 tend to breed like rabbits."

"Or fish!" Deeyen adds, laughing.

Both girls stare at him, unimpressed. Jetty raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Kyrenne snorts, either with her mentoring partner or at him, it's hard to be sure, but she groans as her eyes return to the television. "Honestly, there's just too many of them, they're giving me a headache." She slams her palm down on the table. "Waiter! I need another drink!"

Xanner mimics Jetty's gesture as he gives Kyrenne a skeptical look. "That's going to solve your headache?"

"No. I just need another drink." Xanner shakes his head and laughs as a different waiter comes over, looking quite a bit flustered and nervous. Maybe it's the idea of serving victors; we are essentially the celebrities of Panem, as much as most of us hate it.

"Mm, and what about her?" Kyrenne begins again after placing her new order. I look back at the screen to see a group of three boys, about fifteen I'd say, but they all look so different, it's hard to guess which tribute they're related to. Extended family of Perrin, maybe?

". . . always knew she was nuts, man. Wanted us up at _3:30am_ on reaping day to train! Not to mention the fact that like, you know, she went _way_ too far in sparring sessions. Broke Tik's leg once with one kick . . ."

"Hate to break it to you, Kyrenne," Xanner says as the teen continues talking onscreen. "But those are all _boys_. Is your eyesight going along with your common sense?"

She frowns and tries to punch him on the arm, but misses, a lack of coordination most likely linked with the empty glasses that still sit before her. Instead, she hits Isaac, whose sullen irritation has been growing all evening with each one of Kyrenne and Xanner's failed attempts to whack each other. Still though, he remains silent, merely sliding down further in his chair. "Whoops, sorry, kid. Anyways, I didn't _mean_ the boys, idiot," she continues, speaking once more to Xanner, who's trying unsuccessfully to hide his laughter at Kyrenne's punch. "I meant the one they're talking about. Your crazy tribute."

"Ah," Xanner says, and his smile shrinks almost immediately. "Her."

"What was with you guys sending her the rope? Seriously, are you asking for trouble?"

"Don't look at me," Xanner says quickly, "It was Skail's idea."

Skail Obereen, a hulking, hugely muscled woman from District 4, one victor I can't say I've ever really gotten to know. And I'm not sure I'd ever want to. Something about her just seems . . . off. Maybe it's her terrifying appearance, with only one eye and scars crisscrossing everywhere across her body. After she'd won her Games, the Capitol doctors had gotten all ready to patch her up and heal her wounds, but she'd told them to leave the marks.

"None of us thought it was a good idea and we completely outnumbered her in the vote," Lyna chimes in. "But then, well, she went to the Head Gamemaker."

Everyone frowns and a few spit out curses, all aimed at Lilibeth Bersone. Some only hate her because of her position, but every victor since Lyna won the 28th Games has a personal grudge against her, as that was the year she ascended to Head Gamemaker and became the prime orchestrator in all the terrible events that passed in our arenas. Unconsciously, my hands clench into fists at the thought that she was in charge of my Games and the sadistic traps that came with it. I hate her, her and everyone of her little Gamemaker cronies. A small part of her even begins to wish that she'd be in my dreams, the same way Meredith is, before I stop myself short. What am I thinking? I don't, I can't, I shouldn't want that sort of thing. But at the same time, I can't entirely quell the desire to see all the Gamemakers go through the tortures we've suffered. The thought worries me, but I quickly force it from my mind as Splendor looks down the table and locks eyes with me. She must have guessed I'd be feeling this. Maybe because she feels the same thing.

"Anyways, Lilibeth approved and there was nothing we could do about it," Jetty continues unhappily, and everyone lapses into silence. Most of the time, mentors get full control over what's sent down to our tributes. We can even collaborate on occasions, like what me and the other District 2 mentors did with Falcon and Genine, to help both Code and Rhine as well as the twelve-year-old District 6 tribute. But sometimes, the Gamemakers overrule our decisions, denying requests or sending items down on their own to "advance the story". It makes me sick.

Slowly, everyone's eyes are drawn back to the television as the interview with the three boys finish and the camera cuts away to an aerial view of District 6 and all its factories, setting up for more interviews. It surprises me; what was supposed to be a conversation with Meredith's family and friends ended up being a quick Q&A with three random kids, whose only connection to the District 4 girl was the fact that she trained them at the gym. _Well, she couldn't possibly have any friends,_ a bitter part of my mind thinks. _Maybe her family's too embarrassed to acknowledge her as well._

The District 6 interviews are equally surprising, though for completely different reasons. Two adults are shown standing in a plain, white room that doesn't look like at all like a normal house. The people themselves don't look natural either; both sport a variety of injuries on their faces, from the man's black eyes to the woman's bruised cheek. But perhaps the most haunting aspect of the picture is their eyes, pale blue and completely dead. It feels as though the two have just given up on life.

An interview doesn't even pass; Caesar is nowhere to be found in the room with them. Instead, the woman just steps forward and begins to speak, though there's a hugely recited quality to her words, as though she was forced to memorise them long ago.

"My name is Mina Hicken and this is my husband, Tollin. We tried to steal our son away from the Capitol, keep him hidden away in our house because we thought we were above everyone else who lives in the districts. We didn't think we needed to pay the price of receiving food and comfort and security from the good people in the Capitol. We were selfish and cruel and admit to ours sins. But we also wish to rectify them."

The next few words seem to catch in her throat and she pauses, silent tears beginning to fall from her eyes. Her mouth opens and closes with never a sound being made and finally, her husband steps up beside her to finish the recitation.

"Taralo Hicken is not our son," he continues, and the woman bites her lip and nods in assent. "He is an abomination, a defilement of the good system the Capitol has set up to help us all survive. H-He . . ." For a moment, it looks as though the man will stop too, but he takes a deep breath, steels himself and finishes, "He deserves to die in the arena."

The broadcast ends and cuts to commercial break, the all-too-happy jingle of the Capitoys Corporation playing as they advertise their latest product. Around us, the patrons at the bar return to their conversations, but everyone at our table is too shocked to speak, the words of Mina and Torrin Hicken replaying over and over in our heads.

"Well . . ." Kyrenne says, though she doesn't seem to have anything to add to that.

"Honestly, I thought they'd been killed," Xanner says, his eyes still on the television, which is now advertising a special deal at Hal's Chicken. "The parents of the kid, I mean."

"Oh, I'm sure they will be, after," Falcon answers, his haggard face looking ten years older than it had moments ago. "But of course the Capitol wants to inflict the ultimate punishment on them first."

"Watching their child die in the Games," Malkyte whispers softly beside me.

Splendor snorts. "Are we sure winning isn't the worse outcome?"

Argent shoots her a look and turns to Falcon, who sits beside him. "I'm really sorry," he says, placing a reassuring hand on the older man's shoulder. "I know you and Genine were hoping this might be your year. But you still have the other one."

Falcon snorts, though the gesture lacks all humour. "What, the twelve-year-old? Forget it, there's no way she could win. Your Achilles will make it, for sure."

"Except for the fact that, you know, he's decided to be all high and mighty and refuse to kill anyone younger than he is," Splendor adds from her corner of the table. "Which is everyone except the two from 4."

"I figured it'd be one of them, right from the start," Kyrenne says. "The District 4 kids. Now, though, I'm just betting on the boy."

Xanner nods, as though he's considered the idea as well. "True. I'm hoping the Capitol acts soon though, and kills Meredith like they do with all crazy tributes. If they don't, and she finds Perrin, well, she's out for blood. His and the District 8 boy's."

"Oh yeah, forgot about him," Kyrenne says. "But he's probably a goner now, eh? Without the Careers to protect him and-"

"STOP!"

Everyone freezes, mid-sentence in their conversations with one another over who's this year's most likely winner, and turns to Isaac. The District 8 boy's pushed himself into a standing position and is currently gazing around at all of us, his usually stoic expression now filled with shock, incredulity, and just a hint of disgust. "What is _wrong_ with you people?" he asks, dark eyes flitting from face to face, and not seeming to care that everyone in the bar, including all the workers and the other customers, are staring at him. "You're talking about kids! Kids, and you're betting on which one of them's going to die. I thought you were above that! I thought you realised how bad it was and would feel sympathetic! You're just as bad as the Capitol!"

Silence follows his words, though not a guilty one. None look apologetic at his words. A few have raised eyebrows, and some are looking around, concerned, to see who might be listening in; that last line could get our District 8 mentor in a lot of trouble, victor or no. But no one gives any hint that the boy's words have had a profound effect on them.

As always, Kyrenne is the first to break the silence. "All right," she says, standing next to Isaac and looking around at all the victors. "Who forgot to give this kid the Victor Initiation? Come on, fess up, who was it?"

"You said you'd do it," Xanner answers, pointing at her.

"What? I said no such thing!"

"Totally did."

"Liar!"

"Totally did. I was there. Mind you, you probably wouldn't remember it; that was the night of-"

"Argh, will you let that go?" She goes to hit Xanner on the shoulder yet again, but her wrist is grabbed mid-strike by Isaac. None of us even saw him move.

"_Stop_," he says, looking her straight in the eye. She stares back, unimpressed and unaffected by his anger. "Stop. I'm tired of being hit, I'm tired of your stupid arguments, and I'm tired of sitting here listening to you people discuss murder like it's no big thing! You're all insane." Kyrenne's hand falls as Isaac releases his grip, moving around his chair and stepping away from our table. "I don't know what kind of . . . what kind of things you are, but you're not human. Guessing who's going to die, hoping for certain kids' deaths, is _not _human. It's, it's evil, and monstrous and-"

"Oh, I remember now!" Kyrenne says, slapping her forehead and completely cutting Isaac off. "I did agree to do it 'cause I thought he was cute. Right."

Xanner shakes his head. "It was creepy then and it's still creepy now."

"Hey, shut up. Deeyen told me I was attractive and he's like, twenty-four years older than I am."

"I said no such thing," the District 5 mentor calls down the table, repeating Kyrenne's earlier words.

"You totally did!" she answers back.

"Well, maybe I was drunk!"

"Maybe I was too!"

"You're probably both right," Xanner says.

Behind them, Isaac looks from one victor to the other, his expression one of pure incredulity at the fact that they're completely ignoring his little speech, and I have to admit, I feel bad for him. He hasn't had any other mentors to talk with, teach him how things work in the victor circle. Maybe he tried to understand on his own at some point, but now, as he throws his hands up into the air and turns to go, it seems he's given up.

Until Splendor stops him, rising from her seat and crossing the distance between her and Isaac in a few long strides. "You two are complete idiots," she spits, and though she grabs Isaac's arm as she says it, her words seem to be more directed to Kyrenne and Xanner. "Honestly, never get _anything_ done. If no one else is willing, then _I'll_ tell him what he needs to know."

Isaac shakes off her hand, his eyes narrowing. "I already know everything I need-"

"Shut up. You have no idea how laughable that sentence is." Her cold gaze meets the boy's stubborn glare and I'm filled with the overpowering sensation of déjà vu. This conversation is hugely reminiscent of the one Splendor and I had outside the bar just a short while ago.

"Anyways, I'm tired of hearing moaning and groaning, so I'll keep this short. We all know we're talking about real children, and yes, we're fully aware that we're casually discussing murder. Because the alternative to these light-hearted chats is going insane, and I don't think I need to explain way that would be a bad thing. You saw the consequences of taking the Games too seriously four nights ago."

Isaac's expression doesn't change, not at first, but I swear I see something flicker in his intense, dark brown gaze. It's no secret what Splendor's talking about; thanks to Xanner, Lyna and Jetty, we heard all about it.

Four days ago, the last District 9 tribute left in the Games, Imogen, died. It's a sad thing to say, but none of those mentors are particularly stable; we all think it has something to do with the fact that their district manufactures weapons. They'd never be able to forget their memories of the Games when surrounded by factories churning out guns and swords and anything else the Capitol might need for security and/or the arena.

Well, their youngest mentor, Aetomn Bawm, had never fully recovered from her Games. We'd all seen her around, all knew what to expect from her; though I guess no one had filled Isaac in. Imagine is shock when, late at night, he's woken to find her standing in his room, going on and on about how she had to find her missing tribute. I guess she'd somehow gotten on the elevator and pressed the button for the wrong floor.

He would have felt more than shock, though. After spending time in the arena, you never, _ever_ want to be surprised, and certainly not in the way where someone sneaks into your bedroom while you're asleep and alone on your floor. According to Xander, Isaac had smashed the beside lamp and nearly cut Aetomn's throat with one of the broken shards before he'd realised who she was.

So obviously, the memory strikes a nerve, which is exactly what Splendor was looking for. Her signature, humourless smirk creeps back onto her face as she watches his expression falter slightly. "Exactly. Don't go preaching what you don't practice, kid. You were fully prepared to kill that girl, and would have too, if it'd taken you a fraction of a second longer to realise who she was. The Games stay with all of us, and we joke about them casually because none of us want to think about the alternative. In a way, it's not so different from people's behaviour before they're reaped. So, shut up," she continues, giving him a little shake, "sit down," she adds, as she shoves him back into his chair, "and try and remember we've all been doing this for a lot longer than you have. If you ever think you know more than we do, you're dead wrong. Dead wrong."

Silence follows her last words as Isaac fails to come up with a response. Or maybe he isn't even trying; he's always been solitary and unwilling to speak, and so far, the words he's said tonight have been more than what I've heard from him in the past year. Maybe he's tired of talking. Of course, it could also be the fact that there's really nothing _to_ say to Splendor's statement.

Though Kyrenne finds something anyways. "Yeesh," she says, watching as the District 1 mentor makes her way back to her seat at the edge of the table. "Since when are you a motivational speaker?"

"Shut up," is all the response Kyrenne gets. Maybe Splendor's tired of talking as well.

"Just saying, that's what, two this evening? You're not normally one for helping people. Like, ever. _Ever_."

"I said, shut up. If you want to argue, go do it with your boyfriend."

Kyrenne and Xanner's simultaneous, child-like protest to this statement does much to alleviate the tension as every chuckles and their expense. My gaze is still fixed on Isaac though, who's back to looking down at the floor with his arms crossed over his chest, though the position seems different somehow. Maybe it's the slump in his shoulders, the nervous biting of his lip, but he seems less like a stoic, impassive victor and more like a lost, shaken boy with no one to turn to. And though Splendor's speech was true (albeit harsh), I find myself feeling awful for the victor in front of me. I had Malkyte and five other victors to help and guide me when I won. Isaac has no one and none of the others really seem to care.

But before I can think further, or even make another move to try and start a conversation with him, the five note jingle is back, ringing to the bar and mixing with the groans of the other victors. Sure enough, as I turn my head to look back at the television sets, Caesar Flickerman's beaming face is there.

"Hello again, citizens of Panem! I hope we didn't lose any viewers during that brief interlude, because they'll have missed half the fun! That's right folks, we have four more family and friends interviews coming up, so stay tuned as we start things right off again with the loving parents and brothers of the beloved twelve-year-old tribute, Catherine Street!"

"I hate that man. So much," Kyrenne says as the TV cuts to a shot of four people plus Caesar, standing in the living room of a modest-seeming home. "Can't wait 'til he gets too old for the job."

"Don't hold your breath," Xanner says, fiddling with one of the empty glasses in front of him. "I hear he has a ten-year-old son right now. Planning on passing the job down to him when he retires."

"Oh, God. You mean to say we have to stomach more Flickerman interviews?"

"Worse. More _Caesar_ Flickerman interviews." Xanner glances up at the television, watching said interviewer fake sympathy at Mrs Street's grief. "His son's called the same thing. Only difference is the "Junior" on the end."

The words distract Kyrenne from hailing another waiter. "You're kidding." She groans loudly, though her mood improves easily enough as another attendant arrives to take her third or fourth order.

"I'm betting they planned it that way so they wouldn't have to spend any more money on reproducing the merchandise," Deeyen says, chuckling at the thought. It's true; a number of board games, figurines and hair dye products have all been plastered with the "sponsored by Caesar" label. Not to mention the giant, neon sign that hangs behind the interviewer bearing his name as he does the tribute interviews. And a small part of me feels bad for this "Caesar Jr.". Even if he's a rich, spoiled Capitolite, it doesn't change the fact that he was named and maybe even conceived just so the Capitol could save money on advertising.

The interview with Catherine's family cuts away to one with the girl she volunteered for, though it doesn't last long. She does manage to mumble out her name, which Caesar repeats loudly as Dhara Toumay for the audience's benefit, and after that, the girl's a mess of sniffles and barely concealed tears. It makes sense, the poor thing. Only twelve and having to live with the guilt that your friend might die in the act of saving your life. It makes me feel so grateful to live in 2, where you're almost always guaranteed a volunteer to save you. Except during my year.

And Rhine's.

Everyone's cringing reactions at the girl's heartbreaking interview doesn't change as they switch over to showing the girl from 7's mother. Though it probably has nothing to do with the woman, who introduces herself as Kendra Watkins; no, it's her daughter everyone's thinking about.

"The poor girl," Argent whispers, confirming my thoughts. "It's a wonder she can still find the strength to keep going."

"She has to, or she'll end up dead." That would be Splendor, always refusing to show even the slightest bit of sympathy, determinedly remaining cold and hardened past the point of caring. "Her and her wimp of an ally."

"I'm assuming the hook thing for her district partner was another sponsor gift we can thank the Head Gamemaker for," Falcon says, changing the subject as he shoots the District 1 mentor a stern look for her pessimism and insults. "None of the District 7 mentors would have wanted that, I'm sure."

"Hey, where are they all this evening?" Kyrenne asks, looking around the table and finding none of the three victors from 7. "Left already?"

"Leif and Tormen did," Splendor says, so uninterested with the interviews that she's chosen to pick at her long, razor-sharp nails instead. "Aaryn's still here, as far as I know. President business."

"Ah." Everyone lapse into an uncomfortable silence; we all know what that means. Kyrenne looks around, trying to find some way to raise the desolate mood once more, and her eyes end up landing on the door, drawn by the tinkle of chimes that indicate someone's entering the bar. "Well, speak of the devil," she says, and everyone turns to see none other than Aaryn Burch walk in.

One of the younger mentors, winning the 31st Games when he was just fifteen, Aaryn's weary, drawn expression still makes him seem dozens of years older than twenty-one. His blue eyes, half-covered by the messy, brown bangs that dangle limply in front of his face, are trained on the ground, and he doesn't even look up as Kyrenne calls out, "Hey, Aaryn, were your ears burning?"

"How dare he ignore me," she continues as he slides into an empty booth, head in his hands.

"I know I would."

"Seriously?" Kyrenne frowns at Xanner's words. "Do you have to insert your own little snarky comment after everything I say?"

"What? When have I ever done that?"

"You are a-"

"Aaryn." This time, it's Splendor calling out, who seems to have decided it's her job tonight to pick up whatever slack Xanner and Kyrenne leave in the midst of their arguments. But it's not just that, though; at least, I don't think it is. Traces of some feeling are just barely visible in Splendor's eyes, but it's not an emotion I can identify because it looks so foreign on her face.

The District 7 victor finally looks up at the sound of his name and turns to face our table, causing us all to suppress gasps. Aaryn's sporting two awful black eyes, and by the reddish tinge that colours the space above his lips, I can tell he must have recently suffered a nosebleed. Which could be the result of the bruising, if his nose is broken.

Splendor wastes no time with unnecessary words. "Come," she says, though it's more of a command as she pulls out the empty chair next to her. "Sit. Tell us what happened."

Aaryn hesitates, and I know from past conversations with him that he's not the kind of person who'd want to make a big deal over this, but he seems to know better than to ignore Splendor's demands. Funny thing about us victors, you tend to grow closest to the people who won their Games around your time: Kyrenne and Xanner, Daen Lals from 3 and Hoot Owell from 10. Aaryn became a victor the year after Splendor, but I've never seen the District 1 girl act all that nicely around him. I figure they're just the exception to the rule. Like me and Isaac, despite my numerous attempts at creating some sort of friendship.

Everyone waits silently, all eyes trained of Aaryn as he takes a seat. Seeing everyone watching intently, he sighs and places his hands on the table, where they immediately begin a nervous drumming. "I was, uh, off on a job. T-Turnabubble, I think she said her name was. Quentia Turnabubble." Aaryn gives what comes across as half-sigh, half-laugh. "Weird name, huh?"

"Continue," Splendor says, ignoring the District 7 victor's attempts at turning the conversation away from himself. Winning the Hunger Games only made Aaryn less eager to be the centre of attention, and I can tell he's having a hard time now.

"Well, um, I was there . . . working and then her . . . husband walked through the door."

Everyone around the table winces sympathetically and Aaryn nods at the reaction. "Yeah. So of course he, well, started yelling at me and ranting-"

"Completely oblivious to the fact that it's all his wife's fault and you didn't even want to be there," Splendor interrupts.

Aaryn nods again, lips curving upwards in a small, sad smile. "Yeah. Well, after threatening to call the police or whatever they have instead of Peacekeepers here in the Capitol, things . . . escalated."

"He hit you," Splendor says. It's not a question. She gauges his reaction, the helpless shrug, the guilty biting of his lip. "And you hit back."

He looks devastated. "I-I couldn't help it. It was just, the sight of my blood again and the pain so I reacted, and this his wife was screaming and he was on the ground and . . ." Aaryn peters off, putting his head back in his hands. Nobody else speaks around the table, not even Kyrenne; Aaryn's words have brought back memories, memories we don't exactly want to recall. Everyone's acted on reflex at some point, or had the overwhelming urge to; after spending time in the arena, you learn to hit first and ask questions later. And it can be an extremely hard reaction to turn off.

Isaac seems the most stricken though, and I can guess why; after his encounter with Aetomn, recent and surely still fresh in his mind, it's obvious Aaryn's words affect him greatly. But after a moment, I realise this isn't the case; he isn't even looking in the District 7 victor's direction. Instead, his wide eyes are trained firmly on something behind me, and I realise the true cause of his distress as I turn around.

In light of Aaryn's arrival, we completely forgot about the interviews, still being broadcast on television. Caesar's moved on from the District 7 girl's mother, and is now questioning what I guess to be the grandparents of Janaff Skye. It's just the tail end of the interview, but as I tune in the older woman's words, I understand what has Isaac so troubled.

". . . just want him home, so much. His parents, they d-died when Janaff was so little. His father, Markis, was our only son . . . To have your, your child die before you, it's absolutely h-heartbreaking. To have your _grandchild_, a boy of seventeen, d-d- . . . I just want him home."

The grandfather nods, his eyes dry but heartbreaking in the sadness and pain still visible within them. "We both do."

"I have to go." I don't know who Isaac's talking to, but he mutters the words before getting up and walking swiftly towards the back of the bar, where the washrooms are. I watch him go, glancing around to see if any else is aware of his departure, but they're all still focused on Aaryn, who finally takes his head out of his hands and tries for a smile but somehow ends up looking more tragic.

"Figured it'd be best to leave the house. Maybe come here and have a drink before the police come and arrest me."

"Oh, screw them," Splendor says, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not your fault, whatever those idiots think."

Quietly, I whisper to Malkyte that I'm going to get some air, and his brow knits together in concern before he realises it's not grief driving me away. His gaze darts to the empty chair across from us and he nods, watching me as I get up and follow the path of the District 8 boy. But before I head into the hall adjoining the bar, I look back, and something causes me to pause for a moment in surprise. Aaryn's still biting his lip anxiously, his fingers upping their nervous drumming to a rapid pitter-patter, like the ever-present _thump, thump, thump_ of a heartbeat. But as I watch, Splendor reaches over and takes Aaryn's hand in her own, causing him to stop what he's doing. He looks up at her gratefully, and the minute shift in the harshness of her gaze, the ever so slight upwards twitch in her lips, makes me realise that Splendor has her own secrets, just as I have mine. Though hers isn't a dark tale of how she killed her district partner – quite the opposite. Hers is that, no matter how much she preaches about being cold and hardened, she cares. Maybe it's only for a few people, and maybe she has a funny way of showing it, but that doesn't change the fact that it's there. She's not as heartless as she likes to think of herself.

The thought makes me smiles too, and I watch the pair for one more second before disappearing down the hallway. Splendor has Aaryn, Falcon has Argent, Kyrenne has Xanner and Deeyen; they'll all be fine. But I know another mentor who might need some help.

My first instinct is to head for the boy's washroom, though I hesitate to proceed for obvious reasons. But then my eyes land on another door, this one made of clear glass and backing onto the bar's patio, empty save one person leaning on the banister with his back to me.

I don't need to see his face to know who it is. "Nice night," I say as I open the door and slip out onto the balcony. The Capitol is built in a sort of tiered fashion, and while the front of the bar is easily accessible from the street, the rear backs onto a steep hill leading down to another road below us. The patio is built on columns, offering us a perfect view of the levels below.

I don't expect Isaac to respond to my comment, so I'm surprised when he answers with a bitter, "Not when you're here." The tone is harsh, but not in a way that the anger is specifically aimed at me, so I take that as a signal that I may proceed.

"I don't know," I say, moving forward to join him at the balcony. "It had its own magic to it, don't you think?"

"No." He steps away the instant I reach his side and the lights from all the buildings around us only help to light the suspicion in his eyes. "Why are you here?"

What can I say? To help? He doesn't seem to be the kind of person who'd appreciate that statement. To talk? Again, not up his alley. I sigh and continue to gaze at our surroundings, but the beauty of the Capitol lights and architecture disappears as soon as my eyes land on a small square in the level below us. Somehow, people have managed to set up a projector, and crowds of Capitol citizens are watching the interviews live on the big screen. It's hard to tell from far away, but I'd guess the boy from 10's parents are being featured right now. "They get me too, you know."

I wasn't intending to say anything, but somehow my thoughts made it into spoken words anyways. Isaac's gaze narrows. "What does?"

"The interviews. They're painful to watch." Isaac still doesn't seem convinced I'm being genuine, especially since District 2 had a distinct lack of family interviews this year, though that hurt more than actually having them. Still, he doesn't speak, so I feel as though I should continue. "Last year we had to sit through both. The boy's and the girl's. His parents were so proud, oblivious to what could happen," I add, my throat closing up at the memory. "The girl's father too. But her mother just wanted her home. Wanted her baby home."

I try to compose myself, try to stay strong, but I've been such an emotional wreck over the past few days and I can't seem to stop the tears. The boy made it to fifth place, until he was killed by the girl from 9. His district partner survived though, all the way to the final two, and then . . . "Oh, God." It just hits me what I've been saying, and I turn quickly to Isaac. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"

But the damage is done; I can tell by the way his jaw clenches, his hands curls into fists at his sides. The biggest tipoff though, is the memories I can almost see flashing past his eyes. Without a word, he turns to go.

"Wait." I put my hand on his shoulder, and by the way he jumps, you'd have thought I'd tried to strangle him. "I'm sorry," I repeat, as he glances warily at me, his hands semi-raised in self-defense, as though he's expecting me to attack him at any moment. "Really, I am. That was insensitive, I wasn't thinking, I just . . . I don't know. Wanted you to know you weren't alone, I guess."

My words seem to shock him as much as Splendor's gesture of affection shocked me and it breaks my heart. I should have tried harder to reach out to him; caught up in our own worries and responsibilities, none of us paid any mind to our newest member, who was in need of a mentor as much as his tributes were.

Almost immediately though, he tries to shake off his surprise and return to the usual controlled, impassive state. "I know I'm not. That District 1 girl pointed it out well enough. You've all been through the Games, whatever I say has no meaning because you've all been here longer and-"

"No." My interruption comes fast, borne of a desire to correct his views. "That's Splendor's version. Some of it's true, but I think she forgot one key aspect of her speech."

He looks at me suspiciously, as though thinking I'll dive into lecturing him. "And what exactly is that?"

"That this is new to you, and you deserve some slack. The older victors know a lot more than we do, but they've started to forget how their first time mentoring felt. And even then, most of them had a mentor of their own. The last time we had a district gain their first mentor was when Mare Stalyonne won the 16th Hunger Games. Twenty-one years ago. So everyone's a bit rusty on dealing with this sort of thing." I give a small grin, hoping it might help to raise his mood. "I guess you'll have to cut us a bit of slack as well."

I can almost see the two conflicting ideas warring in Isaac's mind as he processes my words. The desire to be part of a group, to not be alone, versus the ever-present worry that friends are synonymous to back-stabbers. The Games instills a certain suspicious nature in all of us. But as I think back on it, trying to recall all that I can about this boy from 8, I realise his mistrust might go deeper than that. Usually family interviews stick with you forever, another guilty memory to haunt you at night, but Isaac's never really made an impression on me, and now I remember why. There'd been no family members shown when his turn came up – only one very irritated orphanage owner.

"_Honestly, I have more than enough on my hands without appearing on television too. Had to try and make this place look proper just for the occasion, do you know how long that took? These children don't ever- Molly, if you break that vase I swear, I'll break you. Anyways, you wanted to ask me something? Isaac Lume? Who? Honestly, how do you expect me to remember one boy when I have all these children on my hands? Lume's the name we give all the kids who come in without one. That's why we're The Lume Orphanage; we got so many Lumes around, I can't keep track. Visya Lume, Tanner Lume, Colby Lume . . . Bix, shut Nalla up right now. I don't care if she's scraped her knee, there's a very important man from the Capitol here and I'm busy. Don't make me come over there. Sorry, what was I saying?"_

A childhood of harsh punishments and complete lack of love would cause enough trust problems as is. Throw in time spent in the arena, and it's no wonder Isaac's never responded to my attempts at conversation.

For some reason, the idea makes me think of Rhine. Even before I became a victor, she still grew up in my shadow. She'd often hurl insults at me, insults that from anyone else might have sounded like compliments. _"Oh, of course they like you. Lura, Lura, the lovely one. Isn't she _nice_? Isn't she _sweet_? Don't you just want to throw up when you see her?"_ Pride wounded, I'd walk away, never thinking about the source of the bitterness behind these remarks.

But then Rhine went into the arena and, against all odds, learned to care. Her friendship with Cordelia grew, and she even developed a sibling-esque bond with Code; the two exchanged more words than we ever did. The Capitol designed the Games to push us apart, pit district against district so we'd never rise up as one to defeat them again; yet my sister, ever the rebel, rejected the idea. Funny how these things work out: growing up, I was always the gentle one, the kind one. In the arena, though, Rhine was much more decent than I could ever have hoped to be.

The thought makes me yearn for my sister, yearn for the hugs and the games and the secrets we never got to share. Her rudeness was part of it, but also my unwillingness to commit. As soon as the insults started, I'd walk away, never giving a second thought as to what I might have been leaving behind. I missed my chance with my sister because I never tried; I can't do the same with Isaac. _I'm learning, sis. I was too late with you but I just might be able to stop someone else from fading bitterly into the background. I wish I could have my second chance with you but I can't and I'm so, so, so unbelievably sorry. I'll change now though, I'll do better. I promise, Rhine._

And it's this inner monologue, this realisation that it was partly my fault Rhine became sarcastic and isolated, that makes me reach out and draw Isaac into a hug. He's a good few inches taller than me so I can't see his expression, but I can feel his heartbeat quickening, his whole body tensing, and I know he must be shocked. For a second, he stays ramrod straight, unsure what to do; then his sense return and he quickly pushes me away and stumbles back. But in between there was a moment, a brief, brief moment, where I felt him relax, almost as though he was happy.

"W-what was that?" He's got his back pressed against the balcony now, back to looking at me like I'm going to kill him, and I can feel my heart twist at the sight. I can't imagine he got many hugs at the orphanage, not if that woman was running the place; this might have even been his first.

"Sorry," I say quickly, "I didn't mean to . . . surprise you, or anything. I just, well, I thought maybe . . ." My words fade slowly into nothingness, my mind at a complete loss as to conclusion for my sentence. "You just looked like you needed one."

He's still staring, eyes wider than I've ever seen them, but there's something else present too; longing. Like that of a small child, lost and confused and just wanting the reassuring presence of their parents. However, he doesn't say anything, and the silence is only broken by the whooping cheers that come from the square below us. My gaze darts their way and I see the screen is blank, people standing from their chairs and milling about, socialising or dancing. "Interviews are done, I guess," I say, turning back to Isaac. "Should we head back in?"

He nods, still seemingly at a loss for words, and I give him a brief smile before leading the way back into the bar. Some of the other patrons have left, seeing as the interviews are done, but if anything, it seems louder inside; though this might be due to three specific victors seated right up at the bar counter.

"What are they doing?" I ask as I reach Malkyte, though I'm still looking in the direction of Kyrenne, Xanner and Deeyen, who appear to be having the time of their lives.

"They insisted we were "bringing the mood down", so they moved their little party elsewhere."

"Bringing the mood down?"

"Some men came for Aaryn, said the president wanted to see him. After he left, Splendor said a few things before heading back to the Centre herself. No one could figure out what to say after that."

"Ah." Now that he mentions it, I notice the two empty chairs at the end of the table. Inwardly, I pray the president doesn't do anything drastic, for both Aaryn and Splendor's sakes.

"Mind you, half of us will probably be called down to his office eventually. All the stuff that was said here tonight." His words send shivers down my spine, partly because of how true it is; between the stuff said about Zeus, Isaac's rant and Splendor's countering lecture, well, people have been arrested for less in the districts. Malkyte acts like this doesn't bother him though as he stands and turns to me. "Are you ready to go?"

I nod. "But what about the others?"

"We'll look after them." Falcon seems to have caught on that I specifically mean Kyrenne, Xanner and Deeyen, because he looks in their direction as he and Argent approach us. "Don't worry."

"But you guys better not be planning on staying too late," the District 1 victor calls to the trio at the bar, and they glance over at his words.

Kyrenne raises her glass. "Nah, 'course not!" she says, the slur in her words, barely present before I went outside with Isaac, now impossible to ignore. "Got a train t'catch tomorrow!"

"Yeah, gotta head back," Deeyen adds, attempting to stack their empty glasses one on top of the other. "And face t'families of those kids."

"Ho, we're gonna need a lotta alcohol for that!" Kyrenne giggles and soon all three of themselves are nearly rolling on the floor with laughter, unaware how sad their words are. Or maybe they were aware – hence the drinking.

"Thanks," Malkyte says to the sober pair of victors, who nod in response.

"Let Genine know where I am," Falcon adds. "She's probably at our station in the control centre."

"I will." And we head for the door to the bar, but I hear no sound of footsteps behind me. Glancing back, I see Isaac standing as if frozen in place, looking from one mentor to the other as though he has no idea where to go. So I put forth a suggestion.

"You want to come back with us?"

He glances over at me and hesitates, but it's only for the briefest of seconds. Then, "Okay," and he's following Malkyte and I out of The Victor's Drink and across the street to the Training Centre.

Once inside the main lobby, however, Malkyte heads off to the control centre to tell Genine about Falcon, leaving Isaac and I to take the elevator up. It's a short ride, seeing as I'm only going up two floors, and the doors seem to have just closed before they open again, giving me a view of our familiar, empty level.

"Well, goodnight," I say to Isaac, though it sounds horribly lame, even to me. I can't help but feel like I need to add something, but what?

"'Night," he responds, but he still looks so lost, so unsure that it comes to me.

"Do you want to stay here for the night?"

"What?"

The words just popped out of my mouth. My thoughts were starting to turn to Isaac riding the elevator alone, up to his empty floor with no one around to help him through the nightmares, or the memories, or fears that yet another mentally unstable tribute might accidentally ride up to his floor during the night. Remembering how my first year was after I won, I can't imagine how he's been coping by himself. "We have plenty of extra bedrooms," I say. "I mean, each floor comes with twelve for the victors, plus two for the tributes. Only if you want to, though. I didn't mean to-"

"No, no. I mean, uh, yeah. Maybe. I'm not, I'm not really sure if . . ."

After everything that's happened tonight, it takes me a moment to remember that, while he's opened up to me, I'm still dealing with Isaac Lume, the independent, stoic tribute who isn't the type to accept help from others, never mind ask for it. So I twist the truth, just a little.

"Sorry, it's just so creepy alone at night on these floors. I know Malkyte will be back in a bit, but I don't know how long he'll take and, well, you know."

"Yeah," Isaac says quietly, then realises what he's agreeing to. "I mean, yeah, I'll stay, if it'll help you."

_And maybe you too. _I smile gratefully. "Thanks."

District 2 only has seven victors, so I install Isaac in an empty bedroom. I thought I was lying before, to help Isaac without making it seem like I was, but in truth, it is nice to know someone else is on our floor.

Though I've forgotten about the Avoxes who populate our level too, and just as I'm heading for my room after making sure Isaac had everything he needed, one comes up to me. I've often expressed my desire to learn the names of the voiceless servants who flit through the halls, but Malkyte's always said it would end up getting them in trouble. So I'm forced to label myself, and though I hate it because it feels like I'm treating them as pets, it's better than referring to them as "You in the white."

The man approaching me now is one I call Raven, for the darkness of his hair and the way it fluffs out, almost like the feathers of a bird. I frown curiously as he shows me a small, neatly wrapped box with a note, pressing both into my hand before bowing in his retreat. "Thank you," I call as he departs down the hallway, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm thanking him for. Still, no use in asking for an explanation.

Instead I take the note and box with me into my room, quietly shutting the door and sinking onto the large featherbed. The note is coarse paper, not the fancy, tinted kind they use in the Capitol. _Someone from the districts then?_ I wonder, my fingers lifting the folded note to flatten it out. But who . . .?

_Dear Lura,_

_How are you? I wish I could be there for you right now, but no matter how many times I ask the officials at the train station, they refuse to let me on. Rush and your father are also concerned, they want you back as soon as possible. But I understand if you need some time._

_She came home a few days ago and we couldn't hold the ceremony, but we did find this. I'm not sure when you plan on coming back, so I decided to go ahead and send it off to you. At least the Capitol officials wouldn't refuse me that. I just thought you might want this sooner than later. _

_We do miss you, and we're all waiting for you to come back. I hope you're not staying in the city because of us; Lura, always remember that we'll love you forever, unconditionally, no matter what happens. Two years ago I sat in that room in the Justice Building and told you I just wanted my little girl back in my arms. Well, my little girl has grown up, into a strong, capable, beautiful woman. But I still just want her home with me._

_Love,_

_Mom_

The letter brings tears to my eyes as I finish, gaze lingering on the last few words. I never realised how much I missed my family during the weeks I've been away. The only thing that kept me from going home with them was guilt and worry that they might think Rhine's death was all my fault. But they don't. They still love me.

_She came home a few days ago . . ._ My heart wrenches as I reread the line; it's not hard to guess who my mother means. Rhine's body would have been sent back on the first train to 2, or what was left of it after that explosion. Still, that doesn't tell me anything about this mysterious item they found.

I don't need to wait long to find out though; as soon as my trembling fingers manage to unwrap the ribbon, the box falls open in my lap, spilling its contents onto my skirt. There's no mistaking the thin, golden chain, the little ruby attached; it's my district token.

I don't know what makes me do it; all I know is one second, I'm staring down at the necklace laying across my lap, and the next I'm hurling it at the wall in front of me, the tears formed by the letter now beginning to flow down my face. My mind conjures up bitter memories of my own note, written to Rhine on the night before the Games. _Just in case_. For luck, it was meant for luck. For all the good it did her.

It grows harder and harder to hide audible indications of my sobs, but I know that if I'm too loud, Isaac will hear me from just across the hall. And I don't want to talk, or pretend everything's all right; I've done that for almost the entire evening. I don't even want to sink into misery and self-pity like I've done for the past few days; no, now, I want to hit something. Just hit it again and again and again, never stopping, never letting the District 4 girl get her breath, just keep hitting her and hitting her and hitting her until she-

Anger clouding my vision, I'd stood up, storming over to where the necklace lay and raising my foot to smash it, smash the false hope and useless luck that comes with it. But at the last second, something catches my eye. A small corner of white, sticking out of the locket where it opened when it hit the wall. My foot lowers almost unconsciously and I reach out to grab this new discovery, only to realise it's a little piece of paper, folded many times over to fit within the confines of the locket.

_Lura,_

_I don't have too much space, so I'll try and keep this brief. That me anyways, right? Brief, blunt, rude Rhine Carson. But that doesn't matter right now, because if you're reading this, that means brief, blunt, rude Rhine Carson is dead. God knows I'd never let you get your hands on this if I was still alive._

_Weird, writing about myself in past tense. Even weirder thinking I might be dead soon. I don't plan on it, of course. And there's no way I'd let you make winning the Games look easy only to fail at them myself. But everyone has a safety net, a backup plan. Here's mine._

_I just, I don't know, don't want to leave without saying a few things that have kind of gone unsaid. You're about the only person I trust won't go waving this note around and making me the laughing stock of District 2, but if you could relay this message to Rush and Pierce, that'd be good. I just feel sort of . . . well, maybe a little bad for making them put up with me all these years. Especially Pierce. Rush can suck it up; he's my brother, he has to deal with it. Pierce was never forced to stick around with me, and yet he did, which was kind of, I don't know, not bad? You dress it up and make the message all flowery and nice for him._

_Anyways, I have something to say to you too. Right now you're off crying in your room or something, sort of because of what I said earlier this evening. You know, 'cause I kind of said you existing was a horrible thing. That was . . . uncalled for, I guess. After all, you maybe, might have done a bit better in the interviews than I could have. Though I maintain you made me look like that bubbly idiot from District 1. _

_Still, taking my place took guts; guts I didn't know you had. And I guess, in a way, you were helping me, so, you know, good on your for that. Maybe you're not the worst sister I could have never wanted._

_Rhine_

_(P.S. I just reread those last two sentences and realised I said absolutely nothing of meaning in there. What I really meant to say was . . . thanks. For everything.)_

"Lura? Lura?"

I don't register Malkyte's voice until he's knocking on my door, and even then I forget to say, "Come in". He enters of his own accord, finding me still staring down in shock at the letter. "Lura? Everything all right?"

"Hmm?" With some difficulty, I break my gaze away from the last three words and meet Malkyte's concerned gaze, which grows as he notices the fresh tear tracks down my face.

"Oh, Lura, I'm sorry I left, I just-"

"It's fine." And for the first time this evening, I fully mean it. "Everything's fine. Oh, and Isaac's in one of the spare bedrooms, just so you know."

Malkyte's brow knits in confusion, but he seems to decide he doesn't need an explanation. Instead, he simply nods. "All right. I'll see you in the morning then."

I nod absent-mindedly, but something hits me just as he's about to walk out the door. "Malkyte?"

"Yes?"

"Is there a train leaving for District 2 tomorrow?"

He scratches his head, trying to recall. "I think so. Why?"

"Well . . ." I glance down at the letter in my hand, and at the letter lying back on my bed. One from my mother, one from Rhine; I love you and I thank you. My heart swells and I smile slightly. "I think I'm finally ready to head home."


	47. I Promised I'd Return to You

**Achilles Atromitos, District 1 Male**

It takes an hour of walking down the narrow strip of sandy beach before I realise how stupid this is.

_Idiot._ Of course Catherine wouldn't come here. If there's one thing that stuck out to me in her recount of stealing from the Careers (besides the horror that a twelve-year-old attempted that feat), it was her skill at climbing. Scaling the tree to scout and later the tower to grab the medicine . . . it was a previously unknown talent to me, though in hindsight it shouldn't have been all that surprising. Catherine's the youngest tribute in these Games, and the lightest; at this point, if you ignore the girl from 7, who was probably climbing trees before she could walk, Catherine would probably be the most agile.

So there's no way she'd have left the safety of the forest to come out here.

I groan in frustration and kick at a seashell near my feet. The beach is a new part of the arena for me, marking the edge of our playing field, and its distance from the Cornucopia (which I assume is the centre) only serves to remind me how massive this place truly is. Which means Catherine could be anywhere.

My eyes wander towards the tree line, a couple dozen metres back from the water, and my heart sinks at the hopelessness of it all. I have absolutely no way of knowing where my old ally might be and in terms of running into her, well, the odds are definitely not in my favour. Sure, the Gamemakers might try and push us tributes together; after all, as of three days ago, we're down to the final eight. But as monstrous, heartless and ruthless as they may be, they're not stupid; both my previous alliance with Catherine and my reluctance to kill younger tributes would make me a pretty sorry candidate for a fight. So far, I've been all too happy about this; it's what I'm assuming to be the reason why nothing major has happened to me at all in terms of battles. But yesterday it hit me that, while they might not push other, younger kids towards me, the Gamemakers could end up sticking me in a scenario where I'll have to fight either Perrin or Meredith. Or both, depending on if the Careers are still together.

The idea makes me think of Catherine, wandering alone in the forest while the killers from 4 and maybe even the boy from 8 hunt together, and I put my head in my hands. _Why did you leave?_ I think to myself, as if she was here to answer. _Why did you risk it?_

But I know why, or at least, I can guess. Four days ago, the amount of remaining tributes wasn't nearly as low: we had eleven, not eight. But still, it was less than half of those who'd started off in the arena, and the fact that the number had dropped by four in one day was a horrifying thought. There hadn't been that many deaths in such a short period of time since the bloodbath. It worried even me; I can't imagine what it would have done to Catherine. Only the best of alliances hold out until the final eight; most break up once the tribute count hits the halfway point. That would have terrified her. That and the fact that, no matter what I said, no matter what I did or refrained from doing, I was still a trained Career from 1 who had willingly allowed himself to get swept up in this mess.

The thought brings to mind memories of my godfather's Games. I wasn't even born when they happened live, but he forced me to watch them over and over again, whenever he felt I was showing a sign of weakness in training. The first time, I was seven, and had refused to kill a pigeon Zeus had caught and presented to me, as a training exercise to "hone my killer's instincts". Something whacking training dummies with a sword couldn't do, apparently. I'd cried and cried, shaking my head while he shouted at me to do the deed. Finally, he'd ended up having to shove a knife through the bird himself. I think at that moment I went into a state of catatonic shock.

He left me in my room for the rest of the day, not bothering me after that, and I did nothing but stare at the wall and think about how much the colour resembled the pigeon's white plumage before it was overrun by red. Eventually Zeus had come in, explaining that he was sorry things had escalated so much that afternoon. I'd nodded, always ready to accept his apology and forgive him like the naïve child I was. Then he'd told me to come downstairs. He had a "surprise".

The surprise turned out to be watching his Hunger Games, the second in history and as bloody as most. The idea of Careers was formed right away, even before my godfather's Games. The Capitol knew that if they stuck twenty-four random children in an arena, none would jump to killing each other. So they planned for a year, built training centres in districts when they supposedly "weren't allowed", and left whispers around 1, 2 and 4, whispers that we were the worthy citizens, the ones who deserved to win the Games and all that they entailed. Unbeknownst to us, however, they'd been feeding lies to the other districts as well. You'd never be able to say where it started, but somehow rumours began floating around that certain districts thought they were better than the others, thought they deserved to win, had even, the most extreme gossipers recounted, sided with the Capitol and helped to end the rebellion in their favour. The Capitol had planted the seeds for an alliance that sprouted as soon as one scrawny kid from 12 and his sister, both reaped due to their father's connections to the rebellion, had announced this unfairness live on the interviews.

"An' we ain't the only ones who think that way either," Cailen Meine told a much younger version of Caesar. "Me 'n Dany 'n the kids from 11 'n 8, we've dealt with unfairness all our lives 'n there's no way we're takin' that crap from some guys who're the exact same as us. You gotta be pretty messed up t' think killin' kids is all right. 'N there's no way we'd let monsters like that roam around."

Rebellious words, but the Capitol had let them slide because they'd wanted to prove a point that nobody could fight against them and win. Cailen Meine and his sister Danysa had already had a bone to pick after being told by their escort that Spinel August, the tribute from 1, was the son of General Gleem August, who had defected to the Capitol army and spilled the plans on a surprise attack that was supposed to be carried out by Districts 1 and 12. Tarson Meine, their father, died along with countless other District 12 soldiers when the Capitol launched a surprise of their own.

So young Spinel had formed his own alliance, originally meant for just his well-being. The idea that the Meine children had joined with four other tributes, all angry at those they'd begun to dub "the Careers" could be worrisome if he was on his own, but bring together these other "hated" tributes in an alliance of his own and he just might stand a chance. After that, the idea of the Careers stuck. Though the "anti-Career alliance" of sorts, created by Cailen and Dany, had never become a popular idea. Perhaps it was due to how quickly its members died during the first Games.

And when nineteen-year-old Spinel August mentored eighteen-year-old Zeus Dynamos, he told him all about the Career alliance and how useful it could be. Though whether this was for my godfather's benefit, or the District 1 girl's remains to be seen: Keiley August was only twelve, but was so certain she'd be able to win the Games, just like the big brother she looked up to so much. The Capitol had also had a hand in her volunteering; the August family was loyal to them and by pushing their children to volunteer, the Capitol could encourage this behaviour in other citizens of 1, 2 and 4, thus creating the long-lasting district rivalries that would ensure we never band together to rebel again. The Career Pack had a good run in the second Games, which ended when the mutts were released. Keiley and Zeus survived, fought together and made it all the way to the final five; then he'd killed her because she was slowing him down.

All this my godfather showed me when I was just seven, to prove that in the arena, killing was a necessity. At that point, I'd been so scared that I couldn't do anything but nod, hoping to please Zeus and stop the scenes of murder that were playing out before me. He'd smiled then, and had ruffled my hair like I was a son he'd just taught to play a sport, not one he was trying to turn into a cold-blooded killer. Then he'd taken me to the table and I caught a glimpse of dinner.

Pigeon soup. Not because we couldn't afford something richer; because he wanted to reinforce the lesson he'd taught that day.

And now my ally's run off because she was worried I might do the very thing my godfather did to Keiley. But I wouldn't, I would never . . . would I? My mind yearns with the desire to see Catherine again, but when I close my eyes, it's not her I watch smiling up at me, but my kids: Quinne and Deimos. Who do I want to see more?

Maybe . . . maybe it was better for Catherine to leave.

No, I can't start thinking like that! If I do then, then what kind of a monster am I? But if I don't, if I don't play the game and play to win, I'll never hold my children in my arms again. They've grown up so far without a mother: my fault, all my fault. And if they grow up without a father as well, it'll also be my fault. And yet I can't- I can't kill to get back to them. At that point, I'd be unfit to act as a parent anyways. So it's lose-lose, no matter which way you look at it.

_Stop it_, I tell myself, sinking into a sitting position cross-legged on the sand. Since Imogen died, I've been unable to shake the feeling that everything I do in the arena is pointless. I can abstain from killing younger kids and ally with tributes all I want; in the end, twenty-three of us are still going to die. And after seeing the concerned faces of my children during the goodbyes as they asked about Daddy's "vacation", I'd promised myself I'd be the one to come home. So isn't everything I've done up to this point counterproductive? Yet I can't seem to bring myself to go out into the arena and actively try bringing myself closer to winning. All I can do is just sit around letting others kill themselves off, a strategy I don't believe is going to get me much further in the Games.

"Why can't you be here?" I whisper, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to Catherine, Imogen or my children. Or even Marie. "I need you with me. I need help."

Funny thing about desperate people; they can make themselves believe almost anything if it means avoiding the darker truth. Which is why when I hear the crack of twigs behind me and the footsteps that follow, I almost convince myself that when I turn, I really will see the dead mother of my children, dark skin flawless and eyes shining as they catch sight of me once more, one of her hands reaching out to lead me away from this terrible arena.

But it's not her – not by a long shot. Instead there stands a tall, tanned boy who looks like he's been to hell and back since I last saw him. In addition to the small cut and bruise I gave Perrin during the bloodbath, a thin line of red now stretches across his cheek with a much larger one present across his chest. The bruising around his eyes however, would be from a punch rather than a weapon – either two hits to each eye or a solid one to his nose would do the trick. He must have some sort of cuts across his back too; the way his shirt is almost falling off his shoulders makes me think it was sliced nearly in half at some point.

And here I am, untouched and unmarked by any battle since we last saw each other. The thought seems to cross his mind too and for a moment I see a flash of envy in his eyes. But it disappears quickly, replaced by steely determination as he raises the blood-coated sword in his hands.

My fingers dart to the trident at my hip and I draw it with Perrin still a good distance away. And, strangely enough, I don't feel fear. Fear is an emotion that comes forth when we realise our own strengths might now be enough to get us out of a situation. In the bloodbath, battling first Perrin then Rowan, I felt fear. But now, my opponent doesn't look at all up for a fight; if anything, he seems more ready for a nap.

"Whose blood is that?" I ask, gesturing to the crimson liquid long dried on the blade in his hands. While the thought of an impending battle doesn't worry me, it's still something I'd rather avoid. Not that I think I'll be getting out of this just by chatting, but Perrin is one of the most reasonable Careers. Maybe he'll understand that a fight with me right now is the exact opposite of what he needs.

"Boy from 11's," Perrin states curtly, slowly beginning to cover the distance between us. I could back up to avoid his advances, but where would I go? The ocean? That might just end up giving him an advantage. Besides, I have nothing to worry about.

Then why are my palms beginning to sweat?

"You killed him." I'm not asking a question; everyone would have seen Dylian Carte's face three nights ago as it flashed across the sky, marking those of us remaining as the final eight.

"I nearly did. Something else finished him off."

That catches me off guard. Something being a mutt? Other than the floating balls of light, I haven't seen any of the Gamemakers' horrendous creations around, though we did hear the deafening, bone-chilling roar of something _huge_ a while back. Knowing what monsters I might eventually happen across could be a lot of help if I really want to get home. "What was it?"

I never get an answer – the moment he hears my words, memories darken Perrin's serious gaze and suddenly his sword is swinging out at me. The attack is unexpected – I didn't figure he had it in him for another fight – and my reflexes aren't fast enough for me to block the blow. Instead, all I end up doing is stumbling back to avoid the oncoming blade, nearly losing my balance as the fine grains of sand sift beneath my feet. Perrin, for his part, appears to have no problem staying upright as he lunges forward for another attack, one I just barely manage to parry. Of course; District 4 is right on the coast, with their prime industry being fishing. Perrin would've had lots of practice running on something tricky like sand – I, on the other hand, am slipping so much I'll be on the ground in a few seconds. And Perrin will win.

Yes, now I'm definitely beginning to feel the fear.

Perrin's next swing hits the shaft of my trident with incredible force and it takes all of my strength to keep my weapon up for the next block. I need to go on the offensive, and soon – at this rate, Perrin'll keep pushing me back until I hit the water. Fighting in the sand is hard enough; fighting with the waves lapping at my calves, obscuring any rocks or broken shells that my feet would need to avoid – it'd be impossible. But I can't find an opening in my opponent's relentless attacks.

_It's not just that,_ I realise with a jolt as the tip of Perrin's sword misses my chest by an inch. _I'm out of practice, while he looks like he hasn't stopped fighting since he got here. _Back at home, Zeus made me train every day, insisting I'd get rusty if I skipped so much as one session. Always I tried to find excuses not to practice – and now, having gone eleven days without so much as raising a weapon, that might just get me killed.

A cool sensation washes over my heel as the waves lick at my feet and I jump at the unexpectedness of it. Mistake. Perrin's next blow hits its mark, the tip of his sword leaving a fiery trail of pain in its wake as it slides across my chest, opening the old, semi-healed wound in the process. The agony deepens as the makeshift bandage Catherine made before leaving is sliced in half and for a moment, my vision goes blurry. I haven't felt like this since the bloodbath – otherwise, every pang of hurt the Games have caused me has been inside, right around my heart.

_Abandoning Quinne and Deimos. Zeus's betrayal. Imogen's death. Catherine's leaving. And now this: my fight, my death because I never truly had what it took to get myself home._

No!

Every awful memory, every precious thing the arena has taken from me comes rushing through my mind as Perrin swings again and that's when my decision is made. I won't kill defenceless children and I will do my best to not to lose my humanity in this arena, but I will _not _let my life end here. The Capitol requires sacrifices from each of us twenty-four tributes, be it leaving their loved ones or their homes or anything else, but the final sacrifice is one only twenty-three of us have to make. I won't willingly let them take my life.

I dodge backwards to avoid Perrin's blow and force myself to stay upright as the water deepens around me. My balance must remain intact; the balance of power, however, needs to be destroyed. I have to gain the upper hand – and I might know just how to do it.

My trident stabs out at Perrin's stomach in what appears to be a random attack, but as soon as my opponent swings his sword to redirect the blow, I change it. Wrist rotates, arm moves and suddenly my weapon's prongs are aimed, not at the scarlet-stained mess of Perrin's shirt, but at his oncoming blade. Too late, he realises my plan, and in that time his sword as already made contact with my trident, sliding right in between two of the tines to slam against the curved metal that attaches all three together. I twist instantly and the pressure of prongs against blade is too much for even a trained Career to keep his grip; the sword flips out of Perrin's grip and flies off through the air. I don't watch it go, but I hear the telltale _sploosh!_ that tells me my opponent won't be regaining his weapon anytime soon.

A now defenceless Perrin begins to retreat, hands raised as though they could possibly do anything to stop the three spears of my trident from piercing straight through flesh and bone to beating heart beneath. My first instinct is to admire his courage as I force him out of the water and back onto the sandy beach, but instead, I feel sick. _Through flesh and bone to beating heart . . . _what kind of a mental image am I giving myself? And unconsciously, I can feel my arm lowering, the tips of my trident sliding ever so slightly away from Perrin's defenceless form. I'm still pushing him back, but the fight's gone out of me. No, I don't want to sacrifice myself, yet now my life's stopped being in danger; so can I really finish this and kill Perrin?

"You're not even going to do it." My mind's conflict must have shown on my face, because the look Perrin gives me has transformed from steely determination to incredulity. "You can't even kill me."

He takes a step forward, almost as if provoking me to stab him, and in that split-second, I make my decision, what I hope to be my _final_ decision. That I am not a monster.

Instead of jabbing out with my trident in response to Perrin's move, I lift my foot and slam it into his chest as hard as I can. He flies back, collapsing into the sound with a muffled groan. Instantly, I'm standing over him, trident pointed straight at his throat.

"I'm not like you," I growl, and it's hard to tell whether I'm talking to Perrin or reassuring myself. Maybe both. "Nothing like you _Careers_. But that doesn't mean I'm weak. Twice we've fought and twice I won. So remember that next time you decide to mess with me."

I'm trying to re-enact my body language at the reaping: standing tall, muscles flexed, doing all that I can to appear the intimidating boy from District 1. I won't kill Perrin – but that doesn't mean I'm willing to fight him again.

"Understand?" Perrin's stubborn gaze never wavers as I say the last word, his green eyes still full of angry determination. I press the trident's prongs a little closer to his throat in the hopes of making him complacent, but realise too late that, having just said I wouldn't kill others, the gesture is somewhat empty. Perrin must have realised that too; had he been scared, he wouldn't have plunged his hidden dagger into my ankle.

Pain like I've never felt before envelops me as rivers of blood emerge underneath the blade of the knife. A small part of me registers that I should be thankful the dagger didn't go in further – my kick reopened the wound on Perrin's chest and he's losing blood too fast to land a solid hit. But I can barely comprehend the idea of being lucky; my mind is so overrun with pain I can't even continue to stand. Slowly, I sink into the sand, groans of pain thinly veiled by clenched teeth as my finger scramble to my ankle and wrench the knife from its place.

It's only after the dagger slides from ankle that I realise I must have dropped my trident. My eyes shoot open, vision blurry with blood loss, but I can see enough to make out Perrin shakily getting to his feet, scooping up my discarded weapon as I go.

"You can't win," he says, pointing the trident in my direction. "You don't have what it takes. You have to work to win! You can't just sit around letting people get their hands dirty and bloody so you can walk off with the prize." He moves the trident back, preparing to attack. "I have people to get back to. I'm willing to work for them."

And he thinks I don't? That my children aren't worth the labour a victory costs? District 1 has always been stuck with the stereotype of spawning prissy, rich citizens who've never worked a day in their life. But that's only because we value our childhood and we want our children to grow up with the knowledge that their future could hold anything. It's something narrow-minded districts like 4, who send their children to work and such young ages, never gain. But we are _not_ worthless, spoiled brats, and I won't let Perrin's misconception allow him to justify killing me.

Before he can make a move, I hurl the knife in his direction. Throwing weapons has never been my forte, even though Zeus always forced me to practice more, and the hilt of the dagger bounces harmlessly off Perrin's stomach. But it distracts him enough to give me a few precious seconds of time, and in those moments I dig my fingers into the sand, scoop up a handful of the grains and throw them right in Perrin's face. Then I'm up and hobbling off as fast as my injury will let me.

If my opponent was in the same condition as he'd been for the bloodbath, I'd already be dead. But he's injured, tired, and half-blinded by sand, allowing me to limp quite far ahead before he finally manages to give chase. What fun the Capitol must be having now, watching us run like two crippled old men down the beach. For a brief moment there, I was glad of the sand – it gave me the distraction I needed to get away from Perrin. But now I've gone back to cursing its existence; my ankle is giving me problems enough without the ground slipping and sliding underneath my feet.

Just the thought of my injury sends a particularly painful pulse of agony shooting through my system, and I nearly collapse right there in the sand. _Keep going!_ my inner voice screams at me. _Just keep going! Think about Quinne and Deimos, think about Imogen and Catherine, think about Marie, keep running for them!_

Is it the slightly-delusional, lack-of-blood me, or is it getting a bit easier to run? No, it really is; the beach is receding, slowly morphing into rockier terrain that moves uphill in what could almost be considered a path to the small mountains that border the arena. And there! A cave, not far up ahead. Maybe I can lose Perrin inside.

I chance a glance back at my opponent just in time to avoid another knife that comes whizzing my way. Where does he keep getting all these weapons? Ah, the backpack; I hadn't bothered to register its presence during our fight but now I can clearly see the bright orange straps of the sack standing out against the ripped, torn fabric of his shirt. Still, he couldn't have gotten his first knife from there, when he was lying on the ground; he would have been on top of his pack. It must have been resting in his belt then, close to his back but not so much so that he'd have trouble pulling it out. Splendor Gold pulled something similar in order to win the 30th annual Hunger Games.

My opponent seems to have exhausted his supply of knives though, because no others are hurled in my direction as we near the cave. Perrin himself, however, is getting dangerously close, and right as I step inside I'm forced to drop to the ground to avoid the trident that comes jabbing out from behind me.

Pure agony roars up from my ankle at this gesture but I force myself to ignore it, instead twisting and hooking my good foot around one of Perrin's knees before pulling with all my strength. His leg buckles and he comes crashing to the ground beside me, the fall not nearly as painless as the one in the sand. Had his Career training not encompassed learning how to take a tumble, his head would have slammed right into the solid stone floor of the cave.

I roll away from my opponent as he lashes out once more with his trident, but not fast enough. One of the prongs pierces my side and this time I can't stop the cry that bubbles up from my lips. An enormous red stain quickly begins to spread across my gold shirt, putting to shame the small rivers of blood from my ankle in the face of this vast crimson ocean. Somehow, my reflexes force me to scramble away from Perrin anyways, but the sheer effort of that alone is enough to rip another shout from my lungs.

The boy from 4 stands gradually, taking his time because he knows there's nothing I can do now. But that's not true, that can't be true! I can't- I can't lose. Quinne, Deimos, I have to see them again! In an effort to slow my advancing opponent my fingers scramble about on the ground for something, anything I can use to defend myself. They dance across the cave floor before curling around the smooth, cold surface of a stone, and in a last-ditch effort to gain the upper hand, I hurl it in Perrin's direction. The action alone sends an absolute tidal wave of pain surging up from my side, and I can feel myself drowning in the agony. My rock doesn't even come close to hitting Perrin, missing him by a mile and disappearing into the gloom of the cave. No, my children need their father! I can't fail them again.

And yet, I can't win.

My eyes shut tight, blocking off the image of my rapidly approaching death and I try frantically to bring the faces of my family to my mind. _Let them be all right, _I pray silently. _Let them be all right and please, let them comfort me now. I need them, I need _you_ Marie. I'm going to die. And I'm . . . I'm scared._

Suddenly, Perrin's footsteps stop and I risk cracking one eye open, expecting to see him standing over me, weapon raised. But he's still a good few feet away, expression stricken and eyes widening. Why? What could he possibly have to be frightened of? The idea makes no sense to me, until through the silence, I hear it too. Growling.

It's my slowly dulling eyes that see it first – Perrin's back is turned. But I dismiss it immediately as some sort of dying-induced hallucination. An enormous creature sprung out of a nightmare, with scales as black as night and claws as long as a man – it couldn't possibly exist in reality.

Then why does Perrin turn so slowly, all the blood draining from his face as he comes to stare straight at what should be an invisible hallucination to him? Why does his mouth move soundlessly before finally uttering a few whispered syllables? "No. No, not again."

Another head, smaller and more human, peeks over the ridge of the dragons forehead. "Ah, Perrin! I was wondering when I'd see you again." Meredith grins, casually tossing a stone, my stone, up and down in one hand while the other is clenched tightly around a rope. "And you've brought company!" Her smile widens, a manic glint lighting up in her eyes. She tosses the rock over her shoulder and her hand goes to her hip before returning with a slick, black whip clutched between her fingers. "Excellent."

* * *

><p><strong>Perrin Bellerose, District 4 Male<strong>

Of course I realised right off the bat that as soon as that clock blade sliced through the boy from 11, we were down to the final eight. Which meant family interviews for those watching the Games from the comfort of their homes. The idea of my mother and father, of my dear sister Bettany and her three of kids, of my pregnant twin Sandrine all speaking about me stuck so firmly in my head. And the idea became an obsession. I could almost _hear_ my mother's voice as she whispered that she loved me, could practically see Sandrine crying as she answered Caesar's questions. Throughout the Games I'd tried to ignore thoughts of my family, worried that it might distract me from doing what I had to do to get back to them. But after Dylian's death, it was a pipe had burst in my mind, and I just couldn't stop all thoughts of my family from flowing through my brain and giving me such an overpowering feeling of homesickness that I'd almost thought I'd throw up.

And then seeing Achilles on the beach, looking as if he'd just been put in the arena this morning and not been living with the horrors of the Games for almost two weeks, well, something snapped inside me. I'd been cut, stabbed, clawed by a dragon, nearly sliced in two by a clock – I'd injured and _killed_ people to get home. And there he was expecting a victory for him to just happen.

I don't want to say I was proud as I advanced on his injured form lying helpless inside the cave. I may have trained, I may call myself a Career, but I don't get a sick pleasure out of hurting others. Still, I felt something as I raised the trident in my hands. _Nothing in life is free. You have to work. _I _worked. I was out on the fishing boats at the age of ten to help my family instead of trying to make it as a painter like I wanted. I've worked hard all my life, _especially _in this arena, and now I'm finally going to get my reward and see my family again._

I was so sure too. So positive that killing Achilles, who I'd assumed was the last true threat in the arena, would help to bring me home.

But then my district partner made her entrance.

"So nice of you to come to me," Meredith continues as I stare at her in both shock and horror. Yes, I had noticed the fact that her face had never appeared in the sky the night after Janaff set off the bomb, but I'd been expecting her to die shortly after that. There's no way she could have come out of that explosion uninjured. Staring up at her now, though, I can't see any hugely noticeable wounds. Until the dragon shifts and I catch sight of her lower half.

"Mm, nasty isn't it" She shifts her weight and what's left of her legs shuffle atop the dragon's head. There's a rope stretching from one of the beast's horns to the other, and in between it's tied around Meredith's waist like a makeshift harness. The full horror of this situation hits me and I can feel my jaw drop at what she's now able to do.

"Yes, unfortunately I have to make do with this creature being my legs now. What did Rhine call it? Darrel?" She grins viciously. "Our allies really were idiots, weren't they? Idiots? No, not just idiots. Weaklings, cowards, backstabbers, traitors . . ."

She begins to ramble, and something shifts in her eyes, like a curtain being drawn back to show the utter insanity that lies beneath the surface of my district partner. I'd be the first one to tell you she was unstable from the start. But now she really seems to have gone around the bend.

Unconsciously, my grip on Achilles's trident tightens, but I don't kid myself; a week ago I had Rhine, Rowan, Cordelia and Meredith fighting the dragon by my side and we still couldn't beat it. Thanks to our youngest ally's brave sacrifice, the beast is now half-blind, but that's done nothing to cripple it – Meredith acts as its eyes. They're two monsters working together to overcome their weaknesses.

"Oh, dear, we'd better act fast, hadn't we?" I don't really register Meredith's words, too busy looking around for some way to escape, but I do register the dragon's opening mouth and the blaze of fire that springs forth. I have just enough time to roll out of the way before it roars past the area where I once stood, continuing on a path straight for the collapsed District 1 boy. His horrified expression lasts only for a split-second, but I know the image will be forever burned into my mind. Maybe _burned_ wasn't the best choice of words; the sickening smell of charred human is filling the cave, and in such close proximity is almost causing me to throw up. At least before I'd fought the dragon on open ground, where the air wasn't so thick with the smell of death.

"Sorry 'bout that." I look up from my position on the ground to see Meredith casually twirling the whip in her hand. "But I knew he'd die soon from that injury and if I didn't get to him, well, then he'd be considered your kill, wouldn't he?" She leans over the dragon's head, the ropes tightening around her waist. "And I just can't let people steal my kills.

"But you already have, haven't you?" she continues, cracking her whip across the dragon's snout. It growls at the pain and as she pounds on its head once with her fist, lowers its neck until she's as close to me as she can get without dismounting the beast. She's even taught this creature how to obey her. This is not good; once more my eyes dart around the cavern, searching for a way to distract her so I can make my escape, but I'm brought sharply back to reality as something massive slams into my chest, knocking me to the ground and keeping me pinned.

It takes me a moment to realise that it's the dragon's claw holding me down, one talon on either side of my head. My struggles are in vain as I try to get out of its crushing grasp, and part of me realises that the trident was knocked out of my grip when I was hit. Now I'm trapped and weaponless; despite the calm, strong demeanour I'm trying to keep up, I can feel sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. _No, Perrin! You're getting home to your family. Stop worrying and start thinking of a plan._

"Of course, you're not injured!" Never before would I have thought Meredith capable of a squeal, but with her insanity, her words sound just like one. "Which means I can take my time with you. Still . . ." she peters off, gesturing to the area around her. "I'm a bit limited movement-wise. So I'll just have to let the dragon do all the work for me."

She whips the beast twice across the snout and it growls, lifting its claw to retract. But the talons don't rise high enough.

"Ahhh!" I can't manage to repress the scream as the beast's nails scrape all the way down the length of my body, leaving me positive I've been sliced in three. The pain, the blood; I can't possibly still be alive right now. My eyes are closing of their own accord as I try to get panting, gasping breaths into my lungs, but every movement of my chest sparks a wildfire of agony that seems to come from everywhere. I don't . . . I can't . . .

"_No_!" The shriek doesn't even sound human, which makes sense considering it comes from a monster. "Bad dragon, bad!" There's multiple _cracks_ coming in rapid succession and the dragon lets out a half-growl, half-yelp. "Look what you've done! Look at the blood, the blood, he's bleeding out, he's going to die, Darrel! He was my toy and I wanted to play for _hours_! What right do you have to kill him, Darrel? What right?!"

"You're insane," I manage to choke out, though between my gasps and the blood bubbling up in my mouth , the words can't possibly be discernible. Still, it feels important to say them. "You're insane and y-you're going to die."

"But there's still time, isn't there? Yes! No cannon! So you're still alive, Perrin? Perrin, dear, it's rude not to answer people's questions. Perrin? FINE! Don't answer. I'm sure you'll still feel this, won't you? Unless you're dead. But you're not, right?"

I want to close my eyes; even something as thin and fragile as my eyelids would act as barrier enough to take me away from this place. But nothing seems to be working anymore and all I can do is stare with eyes that barely register the dragon's head as it leans over me with Meredith cackling on top.

"That's movement! That's movement in his chest! He's not dead yet! Which gives me time to put my plan into motion. You know, Perrin, you and Janaff thought you were so clever with your little plot, but really, anyone can make one! Me and Darrel did, didn't we, Darrel? Only we don't have a fancy bomb, we just have _fire_. But fire can still injure you the way you injured me. Want to feel how I'm feeling, Perrin?"

I barely even feel the blaze of heat as it eats into my legs, blazing through the dragon claw cuts and turning everything to ash. At that point, I'm already gone.

* * *

><p><em>In the Capitol . . .<em>

**Zeus Dynamos**

I can feel their eyes on me, the eyes of all seventeen mentors still left in the Control Centre. Of course, five gazes don't stay with me very long; the mentors of District 4 are too concerned with their male tribute, who's now facing his district partner alone. But I can tell they were all watching me, if only for a moment. Watching to see if I cared.

I know they know I rigged the reapings; apparently Kilila has certain desires that only hiring the sole male victor from District 4 can fulfill. And the sole male victor from District 4 has keen ears and a big mouth.

"Well, that's that," Splendor says, rising from her chair and drawing eyes from me to her. "Ugh, and we just missed the District 1 train. Couldn't she have offed him a bit sooner?"

"_Splendor_," Argent hisses reproachfully, nodding in my direction. I should say something; the man's implying I'm to be pitied and this opinion must be corrected straight off. But the gaze of another has me distracted, so instead of reprimanding Argent, I find myself staring into the green, red-rimmed eyes of Michael Schylla.

_You see how it feels? _his gaze seems to scream. _Do you understand? And you wanted this, you purposefully stuck him in the Games. You're a monster._

I'm disappointed at how narrow-minded he is. Yes, his daughter died, but that's no reason not to keep a clear head. This was for everyone's good, he should have known that. This was for the rebellion's good.

It's hard to trust within the ranks of victors; most of the people in this room got to where they are now by stabbing at least one person in their back. The rebels' numbers are small because of this, and I'm only accepted because Spinel and I were the first to organise it. Most mistrust me wholeheartedly due to my "betrayal" of Keiley August.

_Last night, last night, last night before the Games. Don't freak out, calm down, you're going to be fine, think of your training score, a ten, you've got nothing to worry about, nothing . . ._

_Except a lack of sleep; I sigh and pause slightly in the game of throwing my token from one hand to the other. Well, not a token, really. Father didn't give me a token, unless you count the bruise from the last punch he'd managed to deliver before the Peacekeepers could pull him out of the Justice Building. Great memory to give a son who might never come back._

_Still, not having a token would have been embarrassing, so I'd scooped up a stone I'd found at the train station and quickly made up some sob story about it for the interviews. And the sponsors loved it. "So you'll be fine," I tell myself soothingly. "You'll be fine."_

"_I have to talk to you."_

"_Gah!"_

_I nearly fall off the bed as I jump in shock, turning to see Spinel August in the doorway. "What the hell? Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"_

_Supposedly I should be more respectful; he's my "mentor" after all, sworn to help me get through the Games, yada, yada, yada. _Please_, as if. I know he'll be doing his best to get his sister home, and frankly, I don't care. No one's ever given a damn about me before, I'm not going to shed tears over it now._

_Except for one person, who did care. Which is why I volunteered to take Christius Atromitos's place in the Hunger Games. Volunteers still aren't a common thing in District 1, even after Spinel did just that last year, and I wanted to make sure my best friend – my only friend – stayed out of harm's way._

"_I have to talk to you," Spinel repeats. Not exactly one for small talk._

_I roll my eyes and sit up as he enters. It's not hard guessing what he wants. "Fine. But just so you know, I know exactly what you're going to say and listen, I have no intention of dying in the arena, so whatever you're gonna say about keeping your sister alive and all, I just can't-"_

"_I want you to kill my sister."_

"_-promise that because, _hello_, I'd rather not die," I finish. Then his words register in my brain. "Wait, what?"_

"_I want you to kill my sister."_

"_Yeah, I know, that wasn't a I-didn't-hear-you what, that was an are-you-crazy what."_

_Spinel just keeps staring at me and those intense grey eyes of his are really starting to creep me out. "I don't understand. Is there a problem?"_

_For a moment, I don't know what to say. "Uh, well, knowing _why_ might be nice. What, do you hate each other?"_

"_I love her more than anything else in the world." The line is said so monotone, with barely a change in expression that at first, I feel like he's being sarcastic. But I've spent enough time having Spinel around to know he doesn't really _do_ sarcasm. Or jokes. Or senses of humour in general. _

"_So you want her dead because . . ."_

"_I couldn't stop her from volunteering, but I can stop the Capitol from getting their hands on her afterwards. The Games would kill her. Being a victor would destroy her."_

"_Oh, come on, it can't possibly be that bad, right?" The question is mostly for my benefit; obviously I plan on winning this thing. "I mean, how could anything be worse than death?"_

_Spinel stares at me and for a moment, I don't think he's going to respond. But something, some sort of emotional battle seems to be waging beneath the cold, steady gaze he throws my way. Then, "They have you under their thumb for the rest of their life. Think of putting one toe out of line and they will threaten and kill your friends and family just to keep you on their side. Not the mention living with the guilt that twenty-three children died so you could get home. You're a puppet. A murderer. And the president's let me know that, after some interest shown by many Capitolites, he might just start selling the victors out to the highest bidder for a few hours of enjoyment."_

_My throat's begun to go a little dry. "What?"_

"_It's exactly what it sounds like."_

_Silence reigns for a while, during which time I try to figure out what to say. Finally, "What makes you think I'd want to kill your sister?"_

"_You were planning on coming home, weren't you? It will help you both."_

"_Yeah, but . . ." I struggle to find why I'm feeling so conflicted. "I mean, she's twelve."_

"_Were you going to let that stop you before?"_

"_Well, no-"_

"_Then what's the problem?" Spinel cocks his head. "Or do you just enjoy doing the opposite of what you're told?"_

"_Fine. Whatever." I'm not even thinking about what I'm agreeing to; I just want this emotionless nineteen-year-old to stop bugging me and staring with his creepy, soul-reading eyes. "Will you leave now? I'd kind of like to rest before, you know, the fight to the death starts."_

_Spinel takes the hint and stands, but before I can let out a sigh of relief, he stops in the doorway. "Make it painless."_

"_You're a freaking weirdo, you know? I'm sure when I come home a victor, I'll find it's not that bad and you'll have thrown your sister's life away for nothing. Just don't blame me for it."_

_Spinel turns his gaze on me for one last time, and there's something present in it that I've never seen before. Anger? "I'd never throw away my family's lives for anything. And I'd save their souls no matter what it cost." He raises an eyebrow and whatever dredges of rage or emotion filled his eyes disappear, though he is looking at me with a certain curiosity. "Though I would much like to see you as a victor, Zeus Dynamos. You might be just the person I'm looking for to help me out."_

I'd never shown Achilles the beginning of my Games' tape, with the reapings and my volunteering for his father. It was too embarrassing, with my own father shouting out obscenities and curses from the crowd as I'd stood on stage. I'm not entirely sure why I'd never just told him, though. Perhaps it hurt too much.

Spinel is also watching me, and even after all these years I still find his emotionless eyes make me uncomfortable. I can tell what he's thinking too; he was against my plan from the start, though I'd been so sure he'd agree with it. We'd mentioned plans of a rebellion to a few victors we were sure could keep the secret, yet I still didn't trust them. If I could have Achilles at my side, working with me to plan the downfall of the Capitol, we'd be unstoppable. I'd first had the idea a few years ago, and had invited Spinel to the District 1's most elite training centre to show him my god-son's talent. _"See?"_ I'd whispered, so eager to share my idea. _"He's be a fantastic addition to our little group, much more trustworthy and more skilled than most. All he has to do is win the Games and we'll be set to stop the Capitol for good."_

But Spinel had taken one look at Achilles and said no. He could tell by the boy's eyes, apparently. Achilles would never be able to win the Games. I'd argued and shouted but my fellow mentor wouldn't change his opinion. So I'd gone ahead with my plan anyways. Yes, I'd had the idea that Achilles's nobleness might cause a few problems for him in the arena, but I'd convinced myself he'd get over it. That girl from 2, Lura, went into the arena and came out a happy, polite little girl, but during the Games she'd been a deadly killer. Achilles would do the same, I'd convinced myself. He'd be fine.

A second cannon goes off, signalling the death of Perrin Bellerose and over at the District 4 station four simultaneous sighs are heard.

"So much for this year," Xanner whispers quietly. He's much less cheerful now that his drunk girlfriend and her alcoholic mentoring partner have gone home.

"We still have Meredith," Skail says gruffly. The others look at her as though she can't be serious.

"Yeah, because we all know the Capitol allows the crazy tributes to win," Mare mutters bitterly from her station. The sharpness of her words is most likely due to her own tribute, not Skail's comment. Calican Sareamer has been steadily losing his sanity since his trap killed the girl from 12, and at this point, his odds of winning might as well be zero.

"They let you come home, didn't they?" Splendor says, loud enough for the woman at the opposite end of the room to hear. Mare glares at her and opens her mouth to respond with some sort of scathing insult.

"Enough," I say, cutting her off before she can speak. "We're done here. Everyone, back upstairs." Normally it's Spinel who gives the orders for our group, seeing as he's the eldest District 1 mentor, but no one objects to my command – not even Splendor. Which bothers me; do they think I'm going to get emotional over Achilles's death? That's ridiculous; he was only my godson.

Only my best friend's noble, kind, brave son.

"Oh, no." Thankfully the words distract me from my thoughts, and distract others who were watching me, waiting for a reaction. Instead, everyone turns to Aaryn Burch, who sits alone at his station – District 7's other two mentors are unstable at best and tend to leave early during the Games. "No, no, no, not yet, not right away . . ."

"What is it?" In an instant, Splendor's at his side, glancing at his monitor. Her eyebrows rise slightly in surprise and though I can't see what's going on from my position, I can hear the music play from the six speakers attached to screens that aren't yet blank. The ghostly tune drifts through the Control Centre, capturing each victor's attention and causing those who still have tributes left to stare in shock at their televisions.

Surprisingly, it's the reserved sixteen-year-old from District 8 who breaks the silence. "It's happening," Isaac whispers, eyes filled with horror and glued to the screen. "They're bringing the tributes together for the final battle."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Start the countdown, there are only six chapters left in this story! That's right, SIX! Whoa :) And only three Games chapters! I have a feeling this chapter messed a lot of people up in terms of those they were guessing would win, so I'm curious to see who you all think is going to win the Games now. Leaving your answer in a review would be awesome :) Also, did anyone's opinion of Zeus change in that last bit? Just curious :)<em>**

**_Hope you all enjoyed the chapter and are geting ready for the big finale!_**


	48. The Rats Go Marching One By One

_**What's this? An update only a week after the last chapter was just posted? MADNESS!**_

_**I so should have been doing my science lab tonight. But we are so close to the end! So I wrote this instead :) Five more chapters after this everyone, five more! And the winner will be revealed in two! So excited :D**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

This place is truly a marvellous depiction of the Capitol's attention to detail. A mess of stone hallways, turrets and towers, _wonderfully_ vivid and graphic tapestries, an enormous, ancient clock ticking away above the huge, oaken double doors that mark the castle's entrance.

I hate it.

The innumerable corridors terrify me, what with the fact that they leave so many hiding places for mutts, traps or Mere- . . . other tributes. The tapestries each depict the gruesome deaths of all eighteen losing tributes and once they catch your horrified gaze, you can't manage to tear yourself away. As for the clock, well, I hadn't originally had a problem with it – until I'd entered the courtyard, looked up and realised the second hand was tinted a nasty, blood-red shade.

And yet, I can't leave. I don't know where Mere- . . . the other tributes are, but I'm sure they're out there and with our numbers suddenly cut down to six, the final battle can't be far off. The faces of the dead have yet to show in the sky, but I already know who they are – those grisly tapestries are nothing if not punctual. I'd been in the armory at the time, and as soon as the cannons had gone off I hadn't been able to stop myself from running to the throne room, just to see if my guess was correct. It was: there they were, already hanging down and filling in two more places on the wall.

There are only five spots left.

At first, when I'd seen the stars of the newest tapestries, I'd felt almost . . . relief? The emotion is so foreign to me now, I don't even remember what it's like. Achilles was one I'd always thought of as a threat – though I had registered his supposed "nobleness" and desire to remain pure and abstain from killing innocents, I'd figured he might bend that rule around me due to my previous status as a Career. And Perrin, well, we'd worked great together as allies. But by not meeting up right after the explosion, we'd effectively severed our alliance. Perrin had reminded me of the District 1 boy in many ways, though there was one path on which he and Achilles differed. Perrin thought ahead; Achilles focused on the present. Both wanted to get home, but Achilles wouldn't be able to conceive a strategy and register that to obtain his victory, he had to kill others. It wasn't in his nature. Perrin knew the costs of winning, and he was fully prepared to pay them. Had we met up again a day or two after the explosion, I have no doubt he would have tried to eliminate me from the competition. He would have felt bad about it, yes. But I'd have died nonetheless.

However, my relief, or whatever you might call it, was incredibly short-lived. Not a moment after I realised whose downfalls the tapestries depicted, I'd decided to look to the cause of the destruction. After all, knowing what had caused the elimination of two major competitors would be useful, I'd reasoned with myself.

And that's when my heart stopped beating.

I couldn't breathe, could barely see – my vision was fading in and out like it had the day my leg was injured. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the logical side of me was trying to make sense of the symptoms. _Breathless, blurry eyesight, a desire to puke, the same mad cackle playing itself over and over in my head . . . okay, focus, Janaff, focus. Think, what did you eat in the last little while: anything potentially poisonous? Or maybe the castle is secreting some sort of deadly gas . . ._

All my life I'd taken the smart path, refusing to admit to having a fear because fear simply wasn't logical. Death, pain, heights, spiders: at some point, these things will all cross our path and to worry about it doesn't make any sense. But after the events of that day with the bomb, I couldn't kid myself now. I wasn't poisoned, wasn't hallucinating or suffering from exposure to suspicious fumes; I was having a panic attack. And Meredith was the cause.

Which is why I'm now sitting against the rear wall of the armory, letting the coolness of the stone seep into my hot, sweaty back while my hands constantly fiddle with the enormous, double-bladed axe that lies across my lap. I don't know why the thing reassures me; I've never touched a weapon like this in my life, even during training, and I could barely lift it off the rack, let alone ever manage to swing it. No, the only offensive combat skills I have are with throwing knives, and even then my talents pale in comparison to Mere- . . . other tributes. Oh, what am I saying? Meredith. Meredith, Meredith, Meredith. The others don't matter; it's her I'm terrified of and it's her who I'm positive will be the one to kill me.

"No, no, no . . ." The syllables are mere whispers, inaudible to any cameras the Capitol might have stationed nearby, but there are other signs of my panic; my hands are shaking so badly as they slide across one of the axe's blades that my thumb slips accidentally, and soon its surface is coated in blood. Surprisingly, though, the pain actually helps me to focus, and gives me a distraction from my thoughts.

Since the castle is fully furnished, there's no absence of lavish bedrooms, complete with four-poster beds and silk sheets so smooth and fine that even those who don't work with fabric back in District 8 would still know their value. But the bedrooms were too big, too open, with rows of windows punching holes in the solid barrier of the stone walls. It had left me feeling exposed to the point where my nightmares and paranoia were too much to bear; in the end, I'd dragged all the covers I could carry into the armory and made myself a little nest.

One of the sheets, however, I'd kept for medical purposes and had ripped into long strips to better bandage my ankle. I grab one of the spare bandages now, tearing off a tiny piece to tie around my thumb. The cut isn't deep, and will probably stop bleeding in a minute anyways, but I'm looking for a distraction more than anything else.

It takes me a good while to attempt tying a knot on one hand with only the other to work with. Any other time I'd consider the menial task frustrating, what with the bandage always unravelling itself, but now, drawing the task merely gives me more time to clear my head, relax and _breathe_. _In, one, two, three; out, one, two, three. In, one, two, three; out, one, two, three. That's it Janaff; calm down._

Once I'm sufficiently at ease and the bandage is finally staying in place, I close my eyes and make the reluctant decision to sort out my issues. I was so certain when my name was drawn from that reaping bowl that the odds were in my favour, that with my intellect I'd be home in no time. But then I entered the arena, experiencing horrors that the television screens back home just couldn't capture, and my confidence wavered. Now, though, there are six of us left. A twelve-year-old, an average boy from 10, my old ally Rowan's nemesis, a paranoid, sheltered kid from 6 and . . . _her_. And me. If I deal with my problem, keep my head on straight and come up with a plan to get past the only remaining threat, winning this thing might just be possible.

"So let's deal with this, Janaff," I say aloud. Back home, I'd always speak my thoughts whenever I could. People often dismiss those who talk to themselves as crazy, but I disagree; my brain works so fast, coming up with three new plans at once and dismissing two at the same time, I can't keep track of it. But my mouth can only utter one thought at a time; it keeps me focused.

Not to mention the fact that speaking out loud helps to disperse the aura of loneliness that's been settling around me like a blanket since the day the Careers split.

"Okay, so, you're scared. And that's perfectly natural. Maybe, maybe fear isn't a logical thing, but that's fine. It's like, a method of self-preservation. We worry about things we don't like so that we don't go near them. All right. But in order to get rid of your fear, you might need to go near Meredith. No, no, that's a terrible idea." Groaning, I shove the axe off my lap and rise from the floor, beginning to pace like I always do whenever my brain's working overtime. "Okay, think. Providing those tapestries are correct, she has a dragon. Probably the same one the other Careers originally fought . . . unless there are two in here. Which would be much, much worse." I pause, shuddering slightly at the idea. "Anyways, chasing after her: not a good idea. But letting her come fine me: also not good. She has flight, she has fire, there's no way to take out that mutt with any of . . ."

The castle's weapons. That's what I'm about to say. And it's true; none of the axes, swords or maces in this armory would be of any use against a gigantic, six-ton dragon.

But something I saw yesterday when I'd first entered the castle courtyard might.

Practically leaping through the armory door, I sprint down one of the many hallways, racing back towards the main entrance. This could work, this might just work – at least as a defensive system should Meredith decide to turn her monster my way. Who knows when that could happen though . . . but my rapid pace begins to slow as I realise that a fight might not soon come our way. After all, she just took out both Perrin and Achilles. Surely that's enough to sate the bloodthirsty appetites of both Meredith and the Capitol audience.

I manage to believe that for another thirty seconds. Then, just as I'm about to reach the throne room, the music starts to play.

It freezes me in my tracks, the chilling tune echoing through the cavernous hall and resounding all around me. I-I know this song. It's the one Precious sung on the day of the reapings.

Or is it?

Precious's song, the same one my mother used to sing to me, was titled _In the Land of the Sun_. Rebels used to sing it back and forth to each other on the battlefield, to reassure themselves that a new day, a day free of the Capitol's iron hold on the districts, would dawn. It was a song of hopes and dreams.

Two things the Capitol loves to destroy.

Throughout the war between districts and Capitol, the Peacekeepers became irritated with hearing this one song over and over again. Perhaps because people used it as an act of defiance; back during the war, the Capitol launched a surprise attack on District 12 with the support of a turn cloak District 1. Those that didn't die in the immediate battle were kept as prisoners and set up to be executed on live television for all of the rebels to see. But instead of crying and begging for mercy like the president at the time, Gregorio Deutschten, had wanted, they'd begun to sing. Not many words got out before the bullets entered their skulls, but it was enough to spark hope throughout the districts.

A hope that had to be squashed. So the Peacekeepers came up with their own song to chant as they marched through the battlefield.

_Sleep now my child, don't you rise,_

_Listen intently to your district's cries,_

_Soon we shall rest and the day will be stark,_

_And I will find you in the land of the dark,_

_We all can hurt you, and pain shall come,_

_Both from poison, feathered creatures or mutts_

_And then from the white bringers of death,_

_So sleep now my child, don't you rise_

_Just listen intently to your district's cries_

_Soon we shall rest and the day will be stark_

And then I will find you in the land of the dark

My grandmother said my parents had always hated that song, my father especially. He was six when the Capitol had finally beat the rebels, and the night the fighting finally ended, all was quiet throughout our district. Everyone knew what was coming – the announcement had been broadcast on every radio channel, which was all most people had had before the Capitol made TVs mandatory. It had said that the Peacekeepers would be coming around . . . with a list. A list of those they thought to be primary members of the rebellion. That could have meant anyone in the district. And so everyone had sat in their homes in fear, terrified of what might happen if the Peacekeepers chose to knock down their door. And so dead silence enveloped the district – until the Peacekeepers started to sing. The tune was mocking, menacing, my grandmother had said, and each line of the song was punctuated by a gunshot, as yet another man or woman was dragged from their homes and shot right there in the streets. The Capitol hadn't even had the decency to dispose of the bodies with respect; they'd been left on their doorsteps for family members to find the next day.

The melody swells, becoming louder and louder and for some reason, all I can hear is the Capitol's version of what was once meant to be a reassuring lullaby. The song is instrumental, the exact same tune as the one my mother used to hum, but nevertheless, I can't bring the calming lyrics to mind. It's as if death itself is serenading me, beckoning a door which I'll inevitably enter. _You can't win_, it whispers and I can almost feel the cold fingers of fear claw at me. _You could never win. Come to me, there's no point in hiding._

_I will always find you in the land of the dark._

I don't even realise I'm running until I nearly slam face-first into a door; my hands shoot out just in time to push it open and I find myself skidding to a stop inside the main hall. But the music, the music's just getting louder; I can feel it shaking the castle, resonating through my very soul and I can't outrun it, I can't outrun it, I can't outrun it. Yet still, my feet keep moving, heading straight for the castle's double-door entrance. A logical part of my brain tries to reason that this must be a Gamemaker trap, that they all have boundaries and if I can just get out of the castle, I'll be safe. But most of my mind is far past using logic now.

The doors burst open as I bolt through them, but even here, in the castle courtyard, I can still hear that chilling song. Only it's not alone anymore. My whole body is shaking, at first from what I believe to be fear at the melody and all that it entails, but the realisation comes quickly that the source of these tremors is the _ground__. _It feels almost as if the entire arena is shaking.

My mind is still occupied with the ever-loudening music, yet this new mystery actually helps me to focus. It's a problem, a puzzle, something to occupy my thoughts. Maybe the whirring of my brain will help drown out the song.

I alter my path, originally heading for wooden gates that marked the edge of the courtyard in the hopes of escaping whatever trap the Gamemakers have planned. Now, though, I reach out to the stone stairs leading up to the battlements. My hands grasp the railing and I nearly fly up the first few steps in anticipation of glimpsing what's causing the rumbling. I won't deny, I'm terrified out of my mind – the idea that Meredith and her pet monster could be behind this new development has already occurred to me and, if it's true, I might be too scared to even do anything about it.

But I have to see.

I reach the top of the battlements and lean out as far over the stone railway as I dare. At first, I can't pinpoint the source of the noise; being high up enables me to see the trees, the tower, the mountains and not much else. Everything that passes beneath the canopy of the forest is a mystery to me.

Slowly, though, the things clear the woods and I realise with widening eyes what's going on. No, no! I figured I'd have more time, figured I'd be able to plan . . .

But I can't. Because the Gamemakers are bringing us all together now.

It takes a few shocked steps backwards before I snap out of my surprise, and when I do, I turn to bolt back into the castle. I don't care if the song is louder in there, I just want the safety only four walls can bring. And of course, the moment I cross the threshold of the fortress, the music swells to an almost deafening intensity.

Then, everything goes silent.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

Pain. Agony. None of these words can possibly describe how I feel. During our trek through the forest, I tried to come up with a better term – then I realised thinking about it only made it worst. And I can't, I can't do that to myself. I have to keep going, for my mother, for my darling pet Niko, for . . . oh, does it matter who it's for?

I don't want to die.

I just . . . I can't. Please, please, I can't. Not because my mother would mourn me, not because the animals might miss me, but because I am _terrified_ of dying. What happens then? Is it bad? Good? Does it hurt?

_And after it happens, where do I go? Am I ghost, forever condemned to haunting the arena where I died? Is there some sort of place to go? Or will just simple . . . cease to exist?_

That idea scares me most of all.

I've told myself I have to keep it together, at the very least for the benefit of my ally. I wouldn't say my mind is fine now, exactly, but had Taralo not helped to pull me from that hole, I would have gone mad. Taralo, my shy, paranoid ally, who used to fear and respect me as the firm leader of our little trio. What does he think of me now, I wonder? Now that I've gone from Gwen, the fierce fighter to Gwen, the girl who cries when she has to sleep because she's worried she might never wake up.

"D-do you . . . hear that?" The words shock me; we've been travelling in silence since we left the cabin, never stopping once to discuss when to rest, what to eat or even where we're planning on going. I guess neither Taralo nor I are particularly talkative people; before, we only spoke because of . . . Lore.

"G-Gwen?"

The anxiety in my ally's tone has mounted and I slowly try to free myself from pain's iron grasp, at least enough to register Taralo's words. His pale blue eyes are focused on me, wide with terror, but then, that's nothing new. Until I realise what he meant with his question.

"Gwen-?"

"I hear it."

A song. Quiet right now, but is it my imagination or is it growing louder with every passing second? It's not a tune I can say I recognise, though I'm almost certain it's coming from somewhere in front of us. Why, though? For what purpose could it possibly-

Then comes the rumbling.

"Gwen?" Taralo's volume has upped slightly, fear making his voice both louder and higher. Of course, we don't know that something bad is causing this, but when you're in the arena, it's a pretty safe assumption. I suck in a sharp breath, picturing hordes of those murderous dwarves chasing in our wake. Although, from behind us I can also hear . . . squeaking?

Oh, God; what are they sending after us now?

"Taralo, we have to move," I hiss, trying to snap my ally out of his terrified daze. "Taralo, _now__!"_ He jumps at the intensity in my tone and starts off and a fast walk, but by the agony that rips through my injuries, I can tell it's a pace we won't be able to maintain. I just . . . I can't manage it.

"G-Gwen?" Taralo stutters out as tears spring to my eyes from the pain. "Are you . . . Are you . . . M-maybe I should slow down."

"No!" I gasp out, desperately trying to keep the suffering out of my voice. "Keep going, please, I'm fine. Just don't . . . don't stop . . ."

But it's not him stopping. It's me.

I can't keep going, I can't outrun whatever kinds of mutts are coming up behind us. And it's not fair to drag Taralo down with me, is it? "Taralo," I begin, and his eyes meet mine, waiting for instruction, but I can't get the rest of the words out. _Leave me behind. Save yourself. _No! He's my only chance, the only thing keeping me alive; without him I won't be able to walk on my own, I'll be alone in this forest to die, not die, not die, I can't die, I don't want to, I'm not ready, please, please, PLEASE, PLEASE, NO!

My whole body's shaking, aggravating my already gruesome wounds, but I can't stop. The right thing . . . the right thing is to save Taralo. But sending him away is sealing my fate and I-I can't. Oh, God, Lore, Lore, how did you do this? How did you close the trapdoor on life just so that Taralo and I might survive? I always called you incompetent, idiotic, irritating beyond belief. And I was fool for it. You were a hero, and always will be.

I-I'm not a hero. But . . . I have to try.

"Go." The words come out as a mere whisper, so quiet I'm positive they were only spoken in my head. Yet Taralo's eyes widen even still. "Go," I say louder. "Taralo, you have to . . . you have to . . ." The words catch in my throat and I choke out a sob. "Taralo, you have to leave me behind."

He just continues to stare at me, his eyes so full of confusion that I can barely stand it. Every second he waits I lose more of my nerve. I open my mouth to tell him so, to shout, to do whatever I can to make him leave, but he cuts me off before I can.

"No," he says quietly, his white hair trembling as he shakes his head.

"Taralo-"

"Let's go home." His words stop me short. "Y-you said "Let's go home". Let's. Let us." He gestures to me with his free hand. "Us is more than one person. Us is . . . is you and me. Because that's all that's left. S-so, we have to stay together. To go home." The next words are barely audible as he whispers, "Please, don't leave me."

I don't know which feeling is more powerful: happiness, utter happiness at my ally's loyalty or shame for being so glad he's throwing his life away to help save mine. Both of these emotions I try to convey in a single, murmured "Thank you", but I'm not sure if he even hears it; the rumbling grows even louder, and seconds later the creatures burst through the bushes behind us.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

_Don't be afraid, _I tell myself. _Don't be afraid. For Gwen. _Usually when I talk to myself like that, I try to hear the words in Zephyr's voice. But my long-time friend hasn't shown himself since we entered the cave. Now, I think of Lore.

Maybe it's his bravery that gives me some courage when the animals first appear before us. Or maybe it's because I was expecting so much worse. Funny how me getting scared could actually help sometimes; often the scenarios I pictured were way worse than what would actually end up happening.

When I first heard the rumbling, I was terrified. It was those evil dwarves, I was sure of it; only an army of them this time. But instead, I found rats.

Not normal rats of course; we used to have them at our house and I learned not to be scared of them after a while. These ones are bigger, much bigger; as wide as my head and long as my arm, at least. Then there are their red eyes and huge, pointed teeth. Though the weirdest thing has to be their ears; enormous, as big as my hand and definitely not proportionate to their bodies. Why are they like that?

I can't think of an answer though, and I'm distracted by Gwen's gasp as she sees the creatures. Maybe she's never even seen a rat before. But it doesn't matter; I have, and I'm still terrified as they come closer. _Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, _I chant silently, one hand wrapping around my necklace while the other holds tighter to Gwen. _Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, don't be afraid . . ._

"Taralo . . ."

I tear my gaze away from the rats to stare at Gwen, who's watching the rats with a mixture of shock and confusion. "W-what?" She doesn't answer at first, her eyes focused on the animals as they pace about before us. And then it hits me, what's so off about this; the rats came tearing through the bushes at top speed when we first saw them. Why stop now?

Suddenly, the music still playing through the air grows louder and as one, the creatures' heads shoot up. Their upper lips curl back into snarls and one leaps forwards at us, its gnashing teeth inches from my ankle. I let out a startled yelp and stumble back, Gwen wincing as she's dragged along with me, and the rats all move closer, more and more emerging from the bushes with each passing second. And it dawns on me what's happening, just as Gwen says it out loud.

"They want us to move." She looks over her shoulder. "Towards the music."

I'm trembling so badly now, I'm surprised she's not shaking along with me. "W-why?"

Her brow furrows; not in pain, for once, but concentration. "Six of us left," she whispers to herself. I don't know what that means; is the number six special in this place? "They're bringing us together."

That confuses me too, for a moment, until I see the look of absolute terror on her face. And suddenly, I don't want to know what it means. But for some reason, I can't stop myself from asking. "What's happening?" I ask Gwen as another rat leaps forwards, forcing us back once more. "What's going to happen?"

She bites her lip, her eyes darting from me to distant, unseen place where the music must be coming from. "We . . ." she peters off as the rats push us further through the forest. "We're . . . going home."

I want to believe it. I want so, so bad to believe it. But one look in her eyes tells me I can't. "No," I say, shaking my head. "W-what's going to happen, Gwen?"

Her eyes stare into mine and I think she realises she can't keep secrets to protect me. Because her next words do nothing to make me feel safe.

"We're going to fight."

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

I'm safe. I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe. Rats can't climb trees.

Can they?

My arms cling desperately to the trunk of an old oak as I stare down at the sea of grey below. It's lucky I decided to set up camp early this afternoon; otherwise, I might have been caught down there when the mutts came. But now it's all right, it's all right, I'm all right.

Until my foot shifts on the branch I stand on. A sliver of bark peels off the tree, falling past limb after limb until it lands amidst the animals below. I don't know why I hold my breath on its descent; I mean, it's not like it's going to do anything, right?

Then one rat looks up.

Then another.

And suddenly, they're all staring up at me, eyes like so many red stars shining through a blanket of stormy clouds. Dhara once told me that the stars are people who've died, and are looking down on Earth to protect those of us still living. But the rats' eyes make me feel the exact opposite of safe.

_That's all right though, _I think, nervously altering my position in the tree. _Because you're safe up here. They can't get you; don't wor-_

The first rat to look up, the biggest in the pack, approaches the base of the tree. It sniffs the trunk, bares its yellow fangs . . . and sticks out one talon-filled paw to dig into the bark.

It's all I can do not to fall out of the tree in shock as the thing reaches out another paw and somehow manages to get its furry body up a few inches off the ground. It squeaks once, and that's all the signal the others need; soon hundreds of furry bodies are scurrying rapidly up the surface of the tree, all heading straight for me.

I don't bother to conceal the scream that comes from my lips at the sight of all these mutts heading straight for me, and the sound is all I need to snap out of my horror. Do something, I need to do something! My head snaps left and right, but I can't see anything, just branches because like an idiot I climbed a tree, a tree, a tree with nowhere to go but up and down. And down is death. While up is just delaying the inevitable.

So I need . . . I need to go to the side?

A plan starts to form in my head, not a well-thought-through one, but I have no time; the first rat is only a few feet below me, and covering the distance with speed I wouldn't have thought possible for a creature like it. In no time at all, the rat is pulling its body onto my branch, squeaking and snapping with its overlarge fangs. It starts to advance on me, but I give it no time; instead, I close my eyes, utter a silent prayer to Dhara's mother or whoever might be watching over me, and leap for the adjacent tree.

It's not a clean jump and I miss the branch I was intending to grab; arms flailing, I lash out in fear for anything I might be able to grab, and somehow my hands wrap around another, thinner limb. Scrambling and gasping, I just barely manage to pull myself up before my grip slips, and instead of falling once more, I'm leaning against the tree trunk trying to calm my hysterical breathing. But I did it. I did it! I escaped those evil mutts!

Until I look down and scream again; there's way more rats than I thought, and those not frantically trying to race down my old tree are climbing up my new one, quicker even than before. I can't believe this, I can't believe this!

But I can't give up now. We're down to the final six and for the first time since I got here, I've actually considered the possibility that I might actually get home to my family again. I won't let that chance disappear because of some stupid, overlarge rodents.

So I jump to another tree, and another, not realise until I'm about to collapse from exhaustion that the mutts have no intention of killing me. No, they're forcing me out of the forest.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

I was planning on letting them take me. The moment the mutts found me, I thought, why not? I'm a goner anyways. I'm starving, thirsty, injured and crazy. Death by giant rats; there must be worse ways to die.

You could be thrown off a tower, for instance, after saving someone who in no way deserved it. Or you could get caught in a trap that wasn't meant for you at all, but made with disgusting, murderous intent anyways.

But I couldn't even do that properly. The moment those rats came near me, I was up and stumbling through the forest, trying to get away. Even now, I'm still going; though the pain in my ribs is so great that my walk as turned into more of a slow-motion stumble. The rats don't seem to mind though; they follow close behind, nipping at my heels once in a while to keep me moving while never actually doing any physical damage. They want to take me somewhere – they don't want me dead. So is that good or bad?

I thought I'd made my decision. After lying in the forest with nothing but my own thoughts and nightmares to keep me company, I thought I'd decided that ultimately, death was the better option. I just didn't have a weapon to do it with; that was my excuse. I just figured that sooner or later, someone would come along to do the deed. And I'd be happy for it.

But as soon as I thought the rats were there to kill me, I was up and stumbling along as fast as my injuries would allow. I thought there was no worse state, I thought I was as bad as a human could get the moment I killed Malia with my trap; then I realised I don't even have enough courage to die properly. Why? Why can't I just end this?! Wouldn't that be easier?

And yet I let the rats push me through the forest like I'm some sort of sheep to be herded. Or goose. Like the kind Keya told me Devera used to look after, until I murdered her sister in cold blood. Or did Meredith do that? It's all becoming so confusing, I can't even remember anymore.

I stagger forwards and my arms fly out to catch hold of the bushes in front of me, but they're thinner than I first thought and provide no help in keeping my balance. Instead, I go crashing to the ground, crying out as my ribs slam into the solid surface. Tears fill my eyes and I don't bother to hold them in, deciding that I'm just going to lie here for the rest of my pathetic, miserable life and contemplate how badly I've screwed , Poe, Kastler, Devera, Malia, can any of you ever forgive me? Please, please, send me a sign that you do, I can't stand the guilt, I'm losing it, I've lost it, please . . .

_Squeak!_

One bleary eye opens and slowly a rat sharpens into view, sitting near my head with its nose twitching expectantly. I stare at it for a moment, unable to even comprehend what the creature is doing here, and slowly my eye starts to close once more. Whatever it is, I don't care, I don't care, about anything, actually, nothing that-

"Ahh!"

My hand is on fire, and my eyes shoot open to find the rat's two biggest fangs sunk deep into the space beneath my knuckles. Frantically, I yank my arm back and the beast lets go, though not before digging deeper and nearly managing to dig its teeth all the way through to my palm. It hurts, it hurts, oh, God, it hurts . . . I try to scramble as far from the creature as I possibly can, but there are some on all sides, teeth bared and ready to tear me apart. Maybe I was wrong – maybe they are going to kill me. No, no, no, no, I don't want more pain, please! It hurts, it all hurts too much and I'm done, I'm done, hasn't this all been enough? "Leave me alone," I sob, tears flowing freely down my cheeks to fall on the grass below. "P-please, just leave me alone."

They don't – but they move slightly. To my left, a path forms as the rats run to either side to clear the way for me. And then I see where they were trying to lead me.

I didn't realise I'd reached the edge of the forest when I fell through the bushes. I didn't even remember there _was_ an edge to the forest. But now a vague memory comes to me, of standing on a metal plate atop a tower, so long ago, and staring across a vast woods where a castle's towers were just visible over the tops of the trees. I'd forgotten all about it.

So this is where they want me to go. It's there or . . . or die. I don't- I don't want there. I want home. Yes, yes, I want home. I want my loving, gentle parents to hold me in my arms and tell me they love me no matter what. I want Kastler and Poe and Keya to forgive me and forget and like me no matter what. Please, I just want all that back.

Under the rats' watchful gaze, I slowly, and painfully, begin to rise and walk. Because I've seen death, and it is horrible and hideous and gut-wrenching and final. I-I can't let that be my fate.

Please. _Please_

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

I've never seen a rat before. Mind you, I've never eaten one either, but I guess there's a first time for everything. Isn't that right, Darrel?

Originally, I was planning on trying a bit of Perrin's charred corpse. The hovercraft's don't pick people up until everyone else is gone and, well, I'm still here! But then I remembered that cannibalism is a big no-no in Games. It makes people think you're _crazy_. And then the Capitol kills you. So I didn't eat Perrin. Because, hah, I'm not crazy. I'm a winner. I'm _the_ winner. Of the 37th Hunger Games.

Still, delightful surprise to have the rats appear. I just had Darrel burn them all the crisps, which I realised was gross for cooking. But Darrel doesn't really have a setting other than _completely charred_. I mean, you're not a stove, Darrel! I can't just twist a knob and set you to the correct temperature!

Wouldn't that be funny if I could, though?

After I'd murdered all the nearby rats and stopped their stupid squeaking, I'd realised something else I'd missed. Music. Hah, music is for wimps. Wimps like Perrin and Achilles and Rhine and Code and Cordelia and all the others! Yes, they do like their music, don't they? Want a pretty funeral dirge, huh, Perrin? Of course you do; you're dead! That's why the joke's so funny.

Still, if music means wimps and wimps means, wells, wimps I can kill, maybe I should follow the music? Oho, this sounds like a plan! Darrel, Darrel, are you listening? I'm coming up with a new plan, Darrel! Excited? Of course you are, you'll get to kill things!

And I will too. Because I _the_ winner. _The_ winner always kills things! That's what Grandfather said at least, before disease killed him. He'd always say, "Meredith, your passion for bloodlust is unquenchable! I love it! Keep that up, don't ever lose it and maybe I'll be able to use you to stick it to those Capitol bastards one day!"

Hehe, don't I do an excellent Grandfather impression?

But silly Grandfather, you got cold feet! You tried and tried and tried so hard to make me love killing, from the very start, and then I did! And then you stopped liking it. You decided it was too much. You decided it was "sick". No, Grandfather, YOU WERE SICK!

And now you're dead. Joke's on you.

So let's go to this little musical meeting, Darrel. After all, you're just aching to stretch your wings, aren't you? And your fire gland . . . pfft, fire gland? Ha, that sounds so stupid! Like Janaff. And all of those other wimps.

Now come on, Darrel, up and at 'em, time to go! Darrel? Daaaaaaarrel!

Oh, silly me, I've been talking to you inside my head all this time. And you can't understand because you don't have . . . whatchamacallit? Telepathy! You don't have telepathy, Darrel. You're tele_pathetic_.

Pfft. Telepathetic. I kill myself!

No I don't. I kill others. Right now. _Now_, Darrel. Darrel? Oh, right.

"All right," I say out loud, giving my whip a solid _crack_ for good measure. "Let's go kill wimps. And anything else. Everything else. Because, you know, we can. Can't we, Darrel?"


	49. Out of the Frying Pan

_**Physics exam tomorrow? Screw it, write fanfiction! :D**_

_**Part 1 of the finale, whooo! Hehe, I was looking back at some of the older chapters and laughing at the A/Ns. On the first bloodbath chapter "I was originally going to do it all in one chapter, but after hitting 5000 words and not even being nearly done, I figured I'd do it in parts. I think people would cry if they saw an updated chapter 10 000 words long"**_

_**If only I'd known how long these things would get by the end of the story :)**_

_**Anyways, for anyone who cares, the poll on my profile regarding this story has been taken down. Figure I don't really need it anymore since we're so close to the end :) However, if anyone is at all familiar with the fandom Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons, I'd be much obliged if you checked out/voted on the new poll I have up. Thanks guys!**_

_**For those of you on summer break, happy summer and, if you had exams, hope they went well! For those of you still doing exams, we can do this, guys! Just power through 'em :)**_

_**Enjoy! **_

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

The music goes silent right as we reach the castle. At first, I think it's just shock and awe that's deafened my ears – I never, _never_ could ever have imagined seeing something as big and, and, _majestic_. The four walls that had once made up my entire world hadn't led me to assume that such monumental structures could ever possibly be created.

Though as the silence draws out, I realise it's not wonder and surprise drowning out the chilling tune; the song has stopped, and suddenly everything in the arena seems a thousand times louder. Having lived all my life in my house, I'd already found myself extra sensitive to noise when I came to this place. I thought I'd gotten over it. Yet once more I'm breaking into nervous shakes; the rats' squeaking, the wind whistling, Gwen's ragged breaths and winces – it's all too much and I want to run, just run, as far and as fast as I can away from this noisy, bright, terrifying arena.

But Gwen said "us". And us needs me. Because Lore . . . Lore can't be here anymore.

"So this is where they want it," Gwen murmurs, still staring up at the castle. But she doesn't seem impressed at all by the imposing building; on the contrary, her eyes darken and she bites her lip as her eyes continue to dart over every inch of the stone building. "This is bad."

"W-why?" I ask, nervous. Is there some crucial detail I missed, something that could hurt us? Who am I kidding; of course there is. I may not have been terribly familiar with the concept of the Hunger Games coming into this place, but the cuts and bruises, the gash across my chest and the hole in my heart where my first real friend once was are all symbols of the pain that can be caused here.

"New territory," Gwen says curtly, though I assume she didn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it did. It hurts her to speak, I think. It hurts her to do anything. "I figured we'd be back at the tower and the Cornucopia for the fight. But we have no idea what this place holds. Traps or . . ."

She breaks off with a glance in my direction. Back in that awful cave, Gwen and Lore used to make guesses about what obstacle we might next face. I suppose they thought it helped to prepare us, but all it did for me was cause shaking fits and panic attacks. With an overactive imagination such as mine, I really didn't need more suggestions on how we might possibly die. Gwen seems to have remembered this, and has stopped talking accordingly, but the damage is done; already my mind is conjuring up an endless amount of horrifying scenarios, all ending with the gruesome deaths of me and my ally. Even the comforting feel of the moth necklace between my fingers can't help to calm my growing hysteria – I don't need a crushed bug wrapped in fabric, I need my mother and my father and Zephyr and Lore and someone, _anyone_ to help me in what Gwen has described as the final fight. Where five of us will have to die.

The truth is, there can't be an us. There could never be an us. So why did Lore ever invite me into an alliance? What's the point? All it did was make this whole ordeal so much more painful.

But . . . easier, too. Think of Lore: comforting me, teasing Gwen playfully, getting us apples, saving our lives. If I hadn't had him, or Gwen, I wouldn't have even survived two minutes in this place.

"Taralo?" For once, it's my ally with the questioning tone as she continues to watch me with dark brown eyes. "You okay?"

I can't possibly express all the thoughts going through my mind, so in the end I merely respond with a weak nod. Yes; I'm shaking, hurting and more terrified than I've ever been in my entire life. But I-I have to be strong. For Gwen.

My ally opens her mouth, looking like she's going to say more, but the rats interrupt. A large pack of them had followed us all through the forest, making no move to harm us while we were moving, yet now our inactivity seems to be getting on their nerves; first one, than many jump forward, baring their fangs and emitting a growling noise so different to their previous high-pitched squeaks.

"We have to move," Gwen whispers to me and I try to nod in assent, but all my head ends up accomplishing is a nervous twitch. Still, I do manage to get my feet moving and shaking step by shaking step, we begin our slow progression to the castle.

It takes a good while for us to finally make it to the courtyard gate, but the rats don't seem to care anymore. In fact, they've stopped following us, and are hanging back with the others – another pack of the creatures Gwen and I hadn't previously noticed were seen upon our nearing the building. I can't think of why they were waiting here though . . . and then it hits me.

Gwen said they were bringing everyone together for the final fight. And if they needed to get all of us to the castle, the rats would have to be spread out in the arena. A pack of them waiting means-

"Someone's already here."

Gwen's whisper is barely audible, as though she's already trying to keep hidden from our mystery opponent. Yet I heard it all the same, though that could have just been my own thoughts, bouncing around inside my head and growing louder with each passing second. _Someone's already here. Someone's already here. Who? Who? Who?!_

While the rats had been pushing us through the forest, Gwen and I had tried to remember who was left in the arena with us. The only ones she could think of were the leftover "Careers", as she and Lore used to call them; the smiling girl from District 1, the two big, scary tributes from 4 and the boy with the glasses from 8. Luckily I managed to fill in the rest; before coming here, I was so used to only ever seeing the faces of myself, my mother, father and Zephyr. Just like how the girl's face, the "mayor's daughter", never left my memory on the day all this awfulness began, I've found it easier to remember the others here – their faces are each so different, it'd be hard not to.

So in addition to those four, our opponents could also be the boy with golden hair from 1, the kind-eyed boy from 10, the silent one from 12 and my own district partner, Catherine. Of course, four of those people have died – two today and two during our time in the cave. But we won't know for sure until we meet everyone inside.

I don't know what to hope for, though. At one point, I caught myself praying Catherine was all right, that she hadn't been injured or heartbroken the way the arena had gotten to everyone else I'd seen. Catherine, the anchor to District 6, my little saviour who read to calm my roaring fears during those few days of training. But then I realised that if she was still alive, Gwen and I would have to . . . would have to . . .

M-make her go. Like Lore.

So I don't want her here, then. But if she's not, then that means she's already gone, already d-dead. Which I don't want either.

But I can't have both.

"See anyone?"

Gwen's looking around herself as we enter the courtyard, but upon glancing at our surroundings myself, I can only answer her question with a shake of my head. The area truly appears deserted.

Though that all changes as we catch sight of the enormous double doors leading to the castle, one of which is open just enough to allow for a skinny child to slip through. And after spending almost two weeks in the arena with barely anything to eat, who wouldn't be thin? I've never had much to eat before – my parents always insisted on buying food for two, claiming it might arouse suspicion if they did otherwise – but never have I been able to see my ribs so clearly.

The door creaks slightly as we approach, some unseen force opening it wider and beckoning us forth. Gwen glances at me and, swallowing the huge lump forming in my throat, I nod. This could very well be a trap. Huge beads of sweat start to form on my palm as it drifts towards the small knife at my belt. Gwen's original one, which we found lying in the forest when we first set out to leave the cabin behind. She insisted I carry it, because her left arm was useless and her right was usually slung over my shoulders in an effort to make walking easier for her injured leg. But I think she also just wanted to forget the memories of what happened the last time she held that blade.

Not that I want to remember either; or carry it in the first place. I don't even know how to use a knife and the first three hours of walking with it in my belt, I was terrified it might slip and slice my leg off. _Do it for Gwen, _I just kept repeating. _Do it for Gwen._

That same chant is playing through my head as I withdraw the knife with trembling fingers before hesitantly making my way to the door. Gwen stays a few feet back, watching and waiting for any signs of attack, but even if there was, she wouldn't be able to do much. I-I can. Well, maybe I can't. But I _have _to.

_Do it for Gwen._

My free hand flies out and slams into one of the doors, pushing at it with a lot more force than I'd originally thought necessary – I'm much more used to the wood of my home than the stone and metal this fortress is made of. Even still, I manage to shove it open and immediately leap back as the door swings back to reveal . . .

Nothing. Just an empty room.

"Wow," Gwen whispers as she attempts to limp closer by herself. All right, maybe "room" isn't the best term. Or empty.

The hall is huge, so huge that I could easily fit my house in here three times and still have room for the castle's extravagant furniture. A long, oaken dining table, a majestic throne, intricately woven-

No. No, no, no, no, please tell me they aren't what I think they are, please, no, no, no . . .

Beside me, Gwen inhales sharply and I can tell she just realised what I discovered. I want to tear my eyes away, want to run from the castle and never look back, yet somehow my gaze continues to dart from picture to picture. Part of me realises that at least we no longer have to guess who the mysterious dead tributes are and that's a good thing, a good thing, not something to panic over.

But all my attempts at placing a positive spin on things cease abruptly as my wide eyes land on the tapestry five spots from the end.

Lore.

"We're going." The command is so harsh it manages to sever the picture's hold on my gaze, and my head snaps around to face Gwen. She's gritting her teeth, eyes determinedly trained away from the tapestries. "No one's here. We're going. Through that door."

"G-Gwen-"

"No, Taralo!"

Her shout rings through the cavernous hall, echoing over and over in one cacophonous din of severity. And with the glare Gwen's giving me now, it feels almost as though we've gone back in time, before her district partner attacked, when all she used to do was hate me.

Though all the harshness breaks as her eyes find their way once more to the tapestries. "Please," she says, and this time it's much quieter. "I want to get out of here."

Then it hits me, the reason she feels even worse in this room than I do. The initial fear these pictures sparked blinded me to each one except Lore's, which I couldn't manage to tear my eyes away from. But now my gaze is unwillingly darting to every tapestry, I realise Gwen's in one of them. The second, where she stands behind a fallen Ram and sneers as she wipes his blood from her knife. It's a huge distortion of Gwen's personality and doesn't even bother showing that she only killed the District 3 male to save Lore, but I can see how it'd still bother her. It horrifies me.

Yet Gwen's not even looking at that tapestry, or any, for that matter. No, her gaze is drawn to the end of the wall, where enough empty space lies for five more pictures. Five more . . . and then one winner.

It's just reinforcing the idea that, at the end of tonight, Gwen, me or both of us could be dead.

Gwen doesn't even seem surprised when I move suddenly to help her limp out of the hall. By the look on her face, she's come to the same conclusion as I have and it's becoming increasingly hard to ignore. I could easily at first; after all, I didn't even know the rules to these Games until my escort included them in a shouted lecture. But now I remember it every time Gwen gives me one of her frowning, sideways glances; the same type that appears on her face now as we head for a door to the side of the hall. It says that at least one of us must die to end this thing. So is there still a point in staying together?

There is for me. I can't- I can't be here alone. But Gwen . . . am I holding her back?

"People could be hiding in any of these rooms." My ally has turned away from the door we just left through, as though getting the tapestries out of sight will also make the memory leave her mind. "And they'll probably know we're here because of my . . . shout." She looks my way, eyes downcast in an expression of guilt. "Um, sorry about that. Anyways, let's check the rooms. Which one do you want to-"

"Do you want to go on without me?"

The thought just wouldn't leave my head, and I couldn't rest without knowing the answer. Gwen stares in surprise and I look down at the floor, my voice nearly inaudible. "Do you?"

There's silence for a moment, an unbearable silence that I'm sure is going to end with a resounding, "No." But when Gwen speaks, it's not in the harsh tone of finality I was picturing. "Taralo. Taralo, look at me."

There are hints of a command in the word, like how the old Gwen talked, but there's also an odd softness to it, and the surprising combination causes me to look up, my pale blue eyes meeting Gwen's own. There's a kindness to be found within those brown depths that I've never seen before, carrying with it a sense of sympathy and understanding. Like she knows exactly how I feel.

"We're a team to the end, all right?" she says, never breaking eye contact. "You got that? A team to the end. Us, remember? Us means more than one person."

I nod slowly, fully realising what she's giving up to stick with me and I wish I could possibly express all my gratitude in two words. But I can't, so the quiet "Thank you" I manage to utter comes across a lot weaker than I'd hoped. Though Gwen seems to understand anyways.

"Now, are you ready?"

I give a small nod and together, we hobble down the hallway towards the nearest door. Gwen glances at me, silently asking if I'm ready to open it and see what lies within but something occurs to me first and my hand goes to my belt.

"H-here." I slide the knife out and offer it to her. "You take it."

Gwen stares at me. "Taralo, I can't use it properly."

"I can't use it at all."

Her mouth was open to protest further, but closes slowly at my words. We both know they're true; I'd never even touched a knife at my house (Mother said they were too dangerous) and I certainly didn't take advantage of the opportunity we had during our training time. Gwen's left arm was essentially rendered useless by Rowan, but her right one still works pretty well and that's her dominant hand. It'd be of a lot more use to her than me.

"All right," she says slowly, taking the dagger. "But I can't hold it and walk with you at the same time."

Oh. I hadn't thought of that. "S-Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's fine, Taralo, you don't have to apologise." Gwen glances at the knife and a newfound resolve seems to come over her as she clenches it tightly in her hand. "I'll just walk by myself."

"Can you?"

"I did a bit before." She moves her injured leg forward and winces in response, but manages to stand strong. "Besides, I'll kind of have to, won't I?"

It takes a moment for me to realise what she means – yes, of course, the big battle that these things apparently always end with. I guess Gwen can't be hanging onto my shoulder while we're trying to survive that.

The thought of a fight makes me want to start shaking all over again, but I know I have to keep it together, for Gwen's sake. So as she readies the knife and I stretch out my hand to open the door, I try to think of every positive, comforting thing that might keep me from melting into a mess of fear. _Home. Mother. Father. Zephyr. The moth._

Lore.

_BAM!_

The door swings more than I'd originally figured and the force of my push is enough to make it hit the wall as it opens. Gwen thrusts the knife forward immediately, shifting it back and forth in preparation for an attack. But none comes.

Instead we're facing an enormous room, filled with shelves upon shelves of books. Back home, I'd loved to read – it was really the only thing to do in my house – but we only had two novels in our possession. I didn't know this many books existed.

"I don't like this," Gwen says, her gaze moving to each narrow corridor between the shelves. "Someone could be hiding anywhere." She starts moving and I jump immediately to follow her, but a shake of her head stops me. "I think you should watch the door. We don't want someone coming in and catching us off-guard."

A chill seeps into my veins at her words, as though my blood had been turned to ice. We shouldn't split up, we _can't_. The last time Gwen left me, she was nearly murdered by her district partner. And when Lore didn't join us in the hole, he _was_ m-murdered. We have to stay together.

But I'm worried saying that would make Gwen think of me as a useless coward. Which . . . I am. The scared part, though, I can't help. The usefulness, well, I can try.

And if that means following Gwen's orders, s-so be it. "Okay," I manage to say, glad I kept the stutter from my voice this time. Still, she glances at me in concern before she goes, and I try to twist my lips into a weak smile, to show her I'm all right. It must work, because the next second she's limping off and leaving me alone.

All alone.

_It's all right, _I tell myself, trying to wipe the sweat off my palms. _Like Gwen said, there are plenty of places for people to hide. If you head someone coming, you can just duck behind the shelves. And Gwen'll be coming back soon anyway. You'll be fine; you'll be fine._

Oh, God. Was that footsteps I heard? Someone's coming, someone's coming, what do I do, oh, God, what do I do, I don't know, I-

_Stop it!_ This isn't helping. I'm not hearing footsteps and no one's coming down the hall. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore my fear and, when that fails, reach to my moth for comfort. The gesture has gotten less and less helpful as each horrible event passed in the arena but it still brings me some comfort.

What I need is to take my mind off of my panic. Every few seconds I'm jerking head this way and that, positive I'm hearing someone heading for me. And telling myself to relax isn't helping – relaxing means clearing my head and a clear head means plenty of room for fear to set in. I need to be distracted, need something to focus on instead . . .

Is that what I think it is?

After another nervous glance down the hall, I take a few hesitant steps into the library until I'm standing right next to the left wall. Yes, yes it is! _A Collection of Fairytales_ – somehow, Summer's book has ended up on this shelf. Even just the sight of its familiar leather-bound cover is enough to force the fear away slightly, making room for happier memories when Catherine was reading the stories. I liked them a lot back then, but now, my love for the fairytales has grown tenfold. This arena may share quite a few similarities with the book, but in there, you can always find a happy ending when the tale ends.

What I wouldn't give for a happy ending right now.

And maybe it's this thought, or the idea that I need to distract myself, but whatever the case, I find my fingers stretching out towards the book, relishing in the idea of flipping familiar pages between them once more. My hand wraps around the cover and it's as though someone has flipped on the warning signals in the back of my mind. Because something is wrong; the book is warm. Why is the book warm?

But the sudden realisation, the worry and the notion that I should stop touching it right now occur to slowly, and my arm is already in motion. Before I can stop myself, I'm pulling the book off the shelf – but it doesn't come off. It stops halfway out, as though something is keeping it semi-attached to the bookcase. And I have just enough time to think, _Trap!_ before the floor shudders, the shelf jerks and suddenly I'm spinning around into a cold, stone corridor with the library disappearing at my back.

"Gwen!" It's the first thing I can think of to shout, and once I say it, I can't stop. "Gwen, Gwen, Gwen!" The bookcase is still in front of me and I pound on it as hard as I can, but it doesn't twist back, the semi-circle of floor attached to this mechanism doesn't spin around once more and I'm trapped, I'm _trapped_. "Gwen, Gwen, Gwen!"

"Who's Gwen?"

My voice, so loud and hysterical just a moment ago, shuts off completely as I hear this new voice. For a few seconds, I can't even get my body to react; I'm frozen in place, mind screaming to turn yet legs doing nothing about it. I can't look, I can't look; because I know if I do, I'll see death rushing straight towards me.

It's this thought that breaks my stupor and all of a sudden, I'm whirling around to face the speaker, arms squeezed tightly against my chest and back pressed so hard against the bookcase that I can feel the outline of each book behind me. It's dark in the corridor, but I swear my face is so pale it's illuminating the entire corridor. It doesn't matter though – wherever the minimal lighting is coming from, it's enough for me to see him.

"I-Is she your district partner?" Calican Sareamer rises from his crouched position on the floor, wincing and clutching his midsection with his hand as he goes. His left hand. Because his right holds an enormous butcher's knife.

It's so similar to Rowan's it makes me want to throw up.

"And is she d-d-dead?" He's standing now, towering a good few inches of me and I can feel my heart threatening to beat right out of my chest. He's big and he has a knife and his eyes aren't normal – they're broken, lost. Crazy.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

"You see them too then?" I can barely register any of his words, too terrified to do anything but stare. "The d-dead ones. I see them at night. A-all the time. And they talk to me sometimes too. Yell at me." I can feel my knees buckling of their own accord, forcing me to slide slowly down the bookshelf but the motion stops when I'm shocked out of my fear for just a moment. Because Calican begins to cry.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, and I don't think he's talking to me; his dark brown gaze is focused on a point somewhere above my head. "I'm so, so sorry. I never . . . I never wanted you to die. I just don't want to either. Please."

_Now_ he looks at me, and I can feel all my fear come rushing back, clouding my vision and nearly obscuring Calican's guilt-ridden face. Each breath I take is shorter, faster, with almost a hysterical whine to it. _I'm going to pass out, I'm going to pass out. And die. _"You understand though, right?" Is he looking at me now? I can't see, I can't see, it's all going black, I can't see. "Please, please tell me you understand. I know you don't want to die but I can't- I can't-" Mine aren't the only hysterical sobs echoing through this corridor; vision wavering in and out of complete darkness, I can just make out Calican trying to choke out his words. "Death _hurts_. I've seen it. I-I-I've . . . caused it. I'm terrible, horrible. But I just can't die. Please, I just want to get back to my family. Please understand. Please don't come back to haunt me."

For a moment, I almost believe my vision is clearing, that I might not faint from terror. Then I see the enormous knife come swinging straight for my head.

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

I try to remain absolutely silent as I search the library, yet my ragged breathing is still cacophonous in my ears. The winces, the groans, I've tried to suppress them all but I just _can't_. Maybe I should have asked Taralo to help me walk.

_No, you can do this!_ I scold myself, forcing my feet around yet another bookcase. I need to be able to rely on myself, like I always have, if I'm going to get out of here alive.

Just the thought brings me to a halt. It didn't seem real until we came in and saw those tapestries, saw those five empty spots and realised there truly were only six of us left. And the Gamemakers wouldn't go through all the trouble with those rat mutts just to have more than one person leave this place alive. No, this is it. The winner will be decided tonight.

How can I keep my alliance with Taralo going then? I just can't wrap my brain around the idea that in a few hours, one of us will be lying around cold and lifeless while the other . . . well, isn't like that, hopefully. I never used to understand, when I watched the Games, how allies would always tell each other, "If I don't win, I hope you do." It was a stupid concept to me; you might as well be saying, "Ultimately, I want you dead, but if that's not possible, well, I guess it'd be nice for you to live." It was dumb – if you die, you don't care who wins because you're dead.

Even now, I can't bring myself to utter the kind ally words. Lore would say them to us all the time and Taralo would hesitantly nod in agreement, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even now, with six of us left. I don't hope for Taralo to win. I don't hope for him to die, but in praying for my victory, am I not essentially doing just that?

My mother always plans ahead; she's the mayor's advisor, it's her job. Until coming here, I'd never understood the notion of dealing with things as they cropped up.

"_So, you couldn't resist joining the alliance after all?" He smiles that cheeky grin I've already come to hate as we lean back against the trunks of some old oaks. Taralo's already fast asleep. "Couldn't resist after our impressive display in the bloodbath?"_

_It's self-deprecating humour, meant to lighten the mood and yet for me, it does anything but. "I don't even know why I did it," I say harshly, trying to kill any idea he has of me wanting "friends". "At least two of us will have to die in the end, what's the point of sticking together now?"_

"_Help each other. Stay alive longer."_

"_While prolonging the lives of our opponents. Seems counterproductive to me."_

_He stares at me, gaze curious, not hurt. "If you're so opposed to it, why'd you save me back there?"_

_It's a question I've been trying to answer myself for the past few hours since the bloodbath. But yet again, no suitable response comes to mind. "I . . ." Desperate not to let my uncertainty show, I try changing the subject back to a topic _he's _been avoiding. "So, what are you going to do when we get down to the final few? We all going to fight it out amongst ourselves or make a pact not to kill each other and let the Gamemakers pick us off?"_

_His eyes show no hint of worry at the idea, but I swear I detect a hint of doubt present. It disappears almost immediately though, and he relaxes casually back against the tree trunk. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."_

Over and over again, Lore would repeat that phrase and over and over again, I'd disregard it. Why put off dealing with a problem? It's not like it'd go away.

I see the value in that now, though. Thinking about death, mine vs Taralo's specifically, it won't help either of us. I told him we were a team to the end, and at the time I thought I was just trying to keep him around to help me walk. But now I realise that it's more than that. I do like him and I don't want him to die. Though I don't want to either, and I can't have both.

But I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

With this in mind, I feel fully prepared to head back to my ally; after weaving my way through the numerous shelves, I've decided there's no one hidden here. Or, if there is, they're awfully good at it – though in that case, I'm not too concerned about them. Thanks to those horrific tapestries, we now know the unspecified deaths that had occurred both today and during our journey through the cave. If that little twelve-year-old Catherine, or even the boy from 10 want to hide for as long as they can, that's fine with me. I'm much more concerned with two aggressive Careers remaining.

Of course, eventually I will have to find the hiding tributes and . . . deal with them. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

"Taralo," I whisper as loudly as I dare, heading back in the direction of the library entrance. "Taralo, we're all good here. Tara-?"

Nothing. I can see bookshelves, couches and an open door but no white hair, no pale skin, no hint of my ally. "Taralo, it's Gwen," I hiss, thinking that he might have heard my voice and, so terrified of the fight to come, panicked. "Taralo, where _are_ you?"

The unwelcome waves of fear are beginning to pool in my stomach but I force myself to ignore them. There's been no cannon yet, so whatever has happened, Taralo's still out here somewhere. I can't see any signs of another tribute, so I'm assuming he just let his paranoia get the better of him. And in doing so, he would have had two places to run: deeper into the library, where I definitely would have heard him. Or out into the hall.

Cautiously, I creep towards the open door, knife aloft and ready to use. Back during training, I was no good with close combat and with my injuries now, I know I'd be even worse. But I could throw pretty well; hopefully I'll still be able to.

The next closest door is a little ways down the hall from the one I'm stepping out of, and it's likely the place Taralo might have gone. Assuming he wouldn't head for the area with all the tapestries which, judging by his earlier reaction to them, is a safe bet.

My knife lowers slightly as I approach the new room; don't want to scare my ally to death by looking like another tribute coming to murder him. However I soon realise that I have to put my knife away completely – my left arm is in no shape to be opening doors. The act of sliding my one weapon into my belt makes me feel naked and vulnerable, a sudden tremble running down my spine as I do so, but I force myself to ignore it. I'll just grab it again later.

My now free hand wraps tightly around the door handle and slowly pushes it open just as I'm about to call my ally's name. But I stop dead in my tracks.

There is a boy in the room, but I can tell even before he whirls around to face me that it's not Taralo. The boy's taller with brown hair, and as he turns I find myself staring straight into the vibrant, green eyes of Janaff Skye.

For a moment, the two of us just stare at each; then the weapons come out, him grabbing for the closest thing he can find while my fingers fly to my belt. And then we're back to watching each other, knife and sword help in our respective grasps.

"You're early," he says, breaking the tense silence. But I know it's just a ploy to lower my guard, and I respond by doing the opposite.

"I didn't know there was a set time for the murdering to start."

He doesn't respond at first, his eyes leaving my face for a moment to take in the meaning behind my bloodstained uniform, and I'm surprised to see him grimace in something not unlike repulsion. He's a Career, a monster; he should revel in my injuries. "I guess Rowan did end up finding you."

Normally even the thought of my district partner is enough to get me shaking as bad as Taralo, but this time, I'm occupied by another thought. _He's a Career_ . . . and so is the girl from 4. Oh, no. "Where's your ally?" I nearly shout, trying to resist the urge to take my eyes off Janaff and search for her myself. If I let him out of my sight, I'll be dead; but if I let _her_ sneak up on me . . .

"Rowan?" My outburst seems to have almost confused him. "Dead, like all the others. Didn't you see-?"

"Not him. Her. Meredith." I'm about to add, "And the dragon," but I stop myself short. Such a creature is impossible, and I refuse to believe the Gamemakers actually managed to create one for these Games. The tapestries are just lying; Noah, Cordelia, Achilles Perrin – they all must have died in some other fashion.

It's funny; the mention of Janaff's old ally sparks a reaction quite similar to mine with Rowan. His face pales, his hands twitch and yet he clenches his teeth in an effort to hide his fear. "We're not allies anymore."

And then, he lunges at me.

Two things save me. One: he's not entirely without injuries himself, and his bandaged ankle slows him down. And two: I've spent my whole life dealing with animals. I know exactly what to do when approaching a cornered one and how to tell when it feels so threatened it's going to lash out. Turns out in the arena, people are pretty much reduced to this animalistic behaviour.

Which is why I have enough time to throw my knife in the boy's general direction before turning on my heel and limping as fast as I can out of the armory, slamming the door as I do so. It's almost as if my brain as gone into hyper drive, seeing the tall candelabra nearby, analysing it as something useful and then commanding me to jam it through the door handle. A drop of hot wax spills on my hand as I do so, but the burning pain goes unnoticed; I'm already running off down the hall.

But it's not a run; no, it's an awkward hop/slide that sends surges of pain through my system that scald a thousand times more than a single splash of wax. _Ignore it! _I shout to myself, _Ignore it!_

Because if not, I'll die.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

Damn it! Damn it, damn it, _damn it_!

I should have known, should have _remembered_ that girl was good with throwing knives. We practiced side by side during training. But the mention of Meredith made me lose track of everything.

My shoulder erupts in pain as I slam it into the door again, but still the solid oak doesn't give. How did she manage to bar it like this? Her aim with the knife was off, but it did still manage to slice my arm as it flew by and the cut was enough to distract me for a moment. Apparently that was all she needed.

_Bam!_ Come on, give! _Bam! _Come on! I can't afford to be trapped in this room with another tribute knowing where I am; that gives _her_ time to plan, to come up with an easy way to kill me. Worse, there's nowhere for me to run if this place is suddenly attacked by, say, a _dragon_. Before, I took comfort in the thick, solid stone walls of the castle, figuring that nothing could break them. Now, though, I'm not so sure.

Damn it, I should have grabbed a knife too! I was pretty accurate with them in training, if I had a dagger in my hand this whole thing might not have happened. But, idiot that I am, I left the knives on the racks, figuring I'd have plenty of time to grab them if need be.

When the music stopped plunged the castle into chilling silence, I knew it could only mean one thing; someone else was near. All it took was running up a few flights of stairs to look out a higher window, and from a safe distance I could watch as Calican Sareamer stumbled closer. He was definitely injured, though how I couldn't tell – still, just the thought was enough to ignite a small blossom of hope in my heart. Besides Meredith, who I've come to think of as the ultimate enemy, Calican is tied for being the oldest with me, and I'd certainly label him as the next biggest threat when thought of along with our other three competitors. The fact that he was injured bad enough to be walking as he was and that he didn't seem to have any weapons on him meant I actually might be able to take him in a close combat fight.

But running back down the stairs took time, and by the time I'd made it to the lower level, I'd had just enough time to hide and watch him emerge from a room I knew to be the castle's kitchen, clutching a rather large butcher's knife in his hand. Idiot that I was, I hadn't brought any weapons with me, and leaping out to attack Calican now would be suicide. I had to get back to the armory, to my weapons; but that room was just down the hall, past the kitchen and Calican was heading straight for it.

Except he'd passed it, instead choosing to go farther down the hall and enter the door to the library. I couldn't guess at his motives, but after hearing alternately muttering and crying softly to himself, I was willing to bet his mind wasn't all there.

Whatever the case, I was willing to leave him in the library if it meant gaining the time to plan. As soon as he'd closed the door, I'd run from my hiding spot and into the armory, forgetting my previous plan for defense against Meredith in light of this new threat.

I just hadn't expected the others to show up so quickly. It is a _big _arena, after all.

_Bam!_ I wince as pain jerks through my shoulder once more, but it's necessary, I tell myself, it's necessary. I can't afford to be locked in here and I can't lose now after coming so close to getting home again! I just . . . I just want to see my grandparents again.

Wait. Janaff, you idiot. Fear and adrenaline are apparently not a good combination for thinking.

If my shoulder could sigh in relief, I swear it would as I back away from the door and grab the double-bladed axe that I'd previously used to comfort me. Now, though, I don't use it as a metaphorical weapon to chase away my fear; instead, I heft it as high as I can with my scrawny arms and swing straight at the door.

Yes, now we're getting somewhere! The weapon is brutal to lift and even harder to use, but after three solid hits the door cracks, enabling me to kick my way through the splintered wood and back out into the hall. Too concerned with the threat of other tributes, I don't even think to grab a more manageable weapon, just taking the axe and running as fast as I can with it.

I was so worried I'd lost her when I first got out, but almost immediately after leaving the armory, I realised that wouldn't be a problem; Gwen must have been pushing her injuries past their limit in her attempt to get away, because there are splashes of crimson all down the hallway. I just need to follow the blood.

The axe might slow me down, but after sprinting through a few corridors and turning one last corner, I see her, one hand on cool stone of a window sill while the hangs limply at her side. My pace slows as I near her, and even with the padded carpet, she seems to hear my footsteps. Her head twists quickly, a jerk of fear. But the rest of the turn is slowed by the heavy weight of finality. She knows there's no way of getting out of this.

That doesn't stop her from backing up a step as I approach, though the motion ends quickly as she gasps. The air is thick with the scent of blood while her leg is coated in the scarlet liquid. It's amazing she's managed to stay conscious for this long.

"Please." All the determination, all the attempts at appearing fearless disappear as I come to a stop two feet from her, both of my hands clenched tightly around the axe handle. "P-please, not yet, not now, I'm not ready, I can't-"

She's breaks off, choking on her own sobs and I shake my head. "I'm sorry." The axe rises and . . .

. . . stays there. Why can't I bring it down? I'm so close to home, there are only five people standing between me and District 8, and here's one of them now, injured and defenceless, an easy kill. Why can't I do this?

Morality. That wasn't a variable I accounted for. I technically haven't killed anyone in these Games, unless you count Code getting in the way of the bomb. But somehow, somehow that was different. It was the heat of the battle, a chance to eliminate someone ruthless and crazy while saving myself and Perrin in the process. This is me, just me, about to kill a hurt, crying little girl. And for the first time since the reapings, I feel like my parents; tired of death and, more importantly, sick of letting the Capitol treat us like slaves. What right do they have to make us do this?

My parents' belief in their cause was so strong, they were willing to give their lives for it. I was reaped because people were worried I might truly be their son, share their opinions and ideals. Which I do, I really do.

But I can't die for them. I just . . . I can't.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again, although I'm not sure exactly who I'm talking to this time. My eyes feel hot and wet, and it takes me a moment to realise why. Tears.

I don't cry, I've _never_ cried. And yet my vision is blurring from the moisture, though still clear enough to see Gwen's eyes widen as I prepare to swing the axe down on her once more.

Then someone rolls through the window, distracting us both completely.

* * *

><p><strong>Catherine Street, District 6 Female<strong>

I thought I was being smart. When I reach what seemed to be the last tree in the forest, I saw it. An enormous, beautiful _castle_. Just like the one from the pictures in Summer's book.

That's when the rats stopped pushing me sideways and instead forced me down the trunk. Oddly enough, I was kind of relieved; once I'd realised the rats had no intention of killing me, they became less like terrifying muttations and more like a horde of little, irritated escorts, always poking and prodding you to do something or go somewhere or walk a certain way.

Once I'd gotten close to the castle though, they'd backed off. I guessed I was at the designated area, though I couldn't see any of the other tributes. Which, I figured, was good. I didn't know exactly who other remaining tributes were, what with two dying earlier today, but one thing I could be positive of was that they were all older than me. And more skilled with weapons. And most likely had more fight experience.

It made me sort of wish I'd never left Achilles. Standing out here, alone, completely dwarfed by the enormous stone walls of the castle; I feel so lost and vulnerable, like I could drop dead at any moment. Which, I guess I could. And that's just . . . really, really terrifying.

But I have to force the idea from my head right now. The rats have kept their distance, but are chittering angrily at my lack of movement. They just want me inside the castle, though; once I'm in there, I could find a nice, safe place to hide and hope the fighting continues on without me. Maybe I'll get lucky, and won't even have to use my weapon to get home.

Although the odds of that happening are really not in my favour.

My hand unconsciously goes to my bow, slung over my back, and I reassure myself that everything will be all right. I mean, I'm a twelve-year-old girl, my life can't just end now, can it? I want to believe the universe is fairer than that.

Still, no point in testing the universe's justice by walking straight into the castle and seeing what happens. Odds are some tributes have already made it here; maybe there's even a fight going on right now. So no, the front door probably isn't the best course of action.

Do castles have back doors, though? I'm not sure, and circling around this whole thing to check for one doesn't sound like an appetising plan. But what else is there? The windows?

The windows.

Yeah, there's that.

The agony in my overworked arm muscles triples just at the thought, but my brain has yet to discard the idea. Ivy crawls its way up and down the castle, even the smallest of vines as thick as my arms. And the closest window isn't that high at all, actually. This is totally possible.

Though my arms and legs disagree as soon as I grab the first vine and trying to hoist myself up. Immediately, I'm met with screaming complaints from my muscles, nearly relinquishing my grip on the vine in the process. But I can do this, I _can_. If the alternative is walking through the front doors and straight into a fight, then this has to be the option I choose.

I just keep repeating that to myself as one hand goes in front of the other, slowly but surely pulling me up the wall of the castle. _Just like scaling the tower back at the Career base, _I tell myself, wincing at the effort. _That was at least three times as high and you managed it no problem! Come on, Cathy, you can do this. Just think of the nice hiding place waiting for you up top. Think of home – this will help you get home. So just reach one. More. Time!_

This time my hands grab, not the rubbery surface of the vines, but rather the cool, hard stone of the window ledge. My only thought is that I've made it, I'm up, and without thinking, I use every last ounce of energy my arms have to pull the rest of me up and through the open window, tumbling onto the soft carpet of the inside hallway.

Then I look up and realise exactly what I've fallen into.

"Ahh!"

The boy from 8 and girl from 7 seem too shocked to respond, but I react without thinking – after all, that boy has an axe poised to swing down and chop me right in half. My leg shoots out, footsword hitting Janaff right below his knee, and not only does his leg buckle, but new blood begins to stain the already rust-coloured bandage that wraps around his calf. I don't even have time to realise what I've done, though; I'm already scrambling to my feet, trying to get as far away from the boy and his axe. Until my back hits the girl from 7.

I whip around and, for a moment, we just stare in shock at each other. Then, in sync, we take off in opposite directions.

My feet carry me past the boy from 8 as I sprint down the hall, trying to get as far away from the two older kids as possible. I don't know about Gwen, but I know Janaff is a Career and would have definitely killed me if I hadn't reacted. But, oh, God; if he's a Career, are his allies around? Both tributes from District 4 could be lurking anywhere in this castle, and the thought forces everything from my mind but sheer panic. Both of them are eighteen, huge, muscled and deadly. And if they find me . . . if they find me . . .

I'm forced to stop running as the hysteria takes over, hyperventilation made worse by running for my life. But the threat is far from gone, and my head whips around in fear that I'll see one, two or all three Careers round the corner after me. There's nothing yet, but I know at any moment, death could come for me. My first instinct is to climb a tree but, idiot, there are no trees, just stone walls and stone floors and nowhere, _nowhere_ to hide.

I should have just stayed outside and taken my chances with the rats.

There! Not a tree, but a door, and at this point, I'll try anything. My breaths are still coming in short gasps, but I force myself not to stop as I lunge for the door and wrench it open before diving into the room.

My back presses instantly up against the door as I close it, as though all seventy pounds of my body could prevent the Careers from breaking in with weapons raised. And despite the fact that I know I should be poised and ready to move at any instant, I can't help it as my legs buckle and I slide slowly to the floor. This is too much, it's too much! I knew the end fight would be dangerous when I got here, but my mind hadn't fully been able to comprehend the idea that I could be _dead_ in less than an hour. How am I supposed to accept that? I'm _twelve_. This isn't . . . this isn't fair.

A sudden noise distracts me from my thoughts, and my head shoots up as the sound of stone grating on stone echoes through the room. I hadn't realised it when I first came in, but the door through which I entered led to a lavish bedroom, complete with a four-poster bed, ornate, golden chandelier and a gigantic fireplace. It's from here the noise seems to be coming, and as I look closer I realise the back wall to the hearth is _moving_, sliding back to reveal a narrow tunnel. My hand searches weakly for the doorknob above my head, mind filling with thoughts of traps and mutts and whatever else the Gamemakers might have rigged for this room. I haven't experienced anything like this so far in the arena, but Achilles and I heard the deafening roar that had echoed through the arena a week ago. Oh god, what if they're sending something like that after me?

My fumbling fingers can't find the door handle fast enough, and without realising it, I start screaming as something stumbles out of the fireplace.

But my cries quickly stop as the thing falls on all fours before crawling quickly away, as though it's just as scared of me as I am of it. Then we both get a closer look at each other and my jaw drops.

"Taralo?" He's covered in soot from the fireplace and it's a bit hard to tell, but I grew quite familiar with those wide, terrified blue eyes during our stay in the Capitol.

"C-Catherine?" It _is _him, and for a while, all either one of us can do is stare. Then, forgetting where I am, forgetting every rule the Gamemakers established, I run over and kneel to hug him as hard as I can.

"Taralo! I was so scared, I was so, so scared!" Never mind the fact that I had to play the adult in the Capitol, now I just want someone's shoulder to cry into. It doesn't matter if he can't offer soothing words or calming reassurances; he's from home, and that's comfort enough.

"G-go . . ."

"What?" I look up at him, bloodshot eyes just barely able to make out his look of terror, aimed straight at the fireplace.

"We have . . . Catherine, we have to . . ."

"Devera?"

That's not- that's not Taralo's voice. Slowly, my head turns, and my eyes widen as they land on the new arrival, also sooty from the fireplace but with what is unmistakably a knife clutched tightly in his right hand. "Devera, is that you?"

Taralo pushes me into a standing position and then we're both up and running, the pounding sounds of footsteps and shouts from the boy from 10 only serving to spur us on. Taralo follows behind me as we run through the corridors, and dimly I realise that I'm taking him right back to where I saw Gwen and Janaff. My mind can't stop my feet in time and before I know it, we're down the hall I first entered, but neither tribute is anywhere to be found – Janaff must have followed Gwen when she ran off. And though I feel bad for thinking it, for wishing a crazy Career on another person, I can't help but think, _Thank goodness._

Taralo's fallen behind a bit and after glancing quickly over my shoulder, I can see why; his shirt is stained a dull red from what must have been a previous injury to his chest, but there's a fresh one dripping blood down his arm that he hasn't had time to even wrap up. I just hope he can take care of it soon.

But he might not get the chance; the crazed boy from 10 is still chasing after us, desperately calling the name "Devera" over and over and frankly, it terrifies me more than Janaff did. Back in District 6, my parents treated all kinds of patients, some for physical injuries and some for mental. I always used to run and hide when the latter was in our house; something about their eyes, the way they spoke, the words they said terrified me more than a broken leg or a bruised rib ever could.

Luckily Calican seems to be suffering from a physical injury too, because he doesn't gain any ground on us, even with Taralo slowing. Still, I won't relax until his voice has disappeared from my ears, and in a split-second decision I make a left at the next intersection of corridors, which takes us straight to a set of stairs curving around up and up and out of sight. Right now, though, I don't care where they lead; I just want to run and hide and _live._

Taralo doesn't question my decision as I bolt for the stairs and cover the first few steps in a flying leap, leaving my district partner even farther behind. And part of my mind, a very small part, is scolding me. _Your parents raised you to take care of those in need. Are you really going to leave Taralo behind like that?_

I shouldn't, I know I shouldn't. Yet I can't make my legs turn around to help him.

_He'll be fine, _I reassure myself. _I can still hear his footsteps. He'll be fine._

Unless those are Calican's footsteps, pounding ever closer after already taking out my district partner with that deadly sharp knife now covered in blood.

The thought of Taralo's lifeless corpse, with mine soon to follow, is enough to drown my mind in panic and suddenly, all I'm aware of are the steps passing beneath me and the warning signals blaring in my brain. I can't even bear to turn my head and check to see if Taralo's all right; I'm too afraid of finding him dead with his murderer taking a swing at me next. And I can't help it as the tears return, ten times harder than when I cried in the bedroom. _No, no, please, this isn't fair, it's too scary, I want to go home, please!_

The stale, unmoving air of the stairwell disappears as the claustrophobic space opens up, the stairs leading up to the floor of what I assume to be one of the castle's towers. The full meaning of this hits me as I realise that there will be nowhere to go, nowhere to hide and yet, I'm still running. Because I can't turn back. Turning back is death.

But as my feet clear the final steps, something pushes against my left shoulder hard, shoving me to the side. And that's when I realise how close I am to the edge of the tower. My arms windmill as I try desperately to keep my balance, but the force of the push was too much and my legs are bending over the low, stone blocks that rim the tower's edge. But not tall enough, they're not tall enough.

Somehow, my eyes manage to find the horrified gaze of the girl from 7 before the weight of my upper body becomes too much and I'm forced to stop my desperate attempts at regaining my balance as first my head, then my shoulders, then the rest of me tumble over the edge of the tower.

* * *

><p><strong>Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male<strong>

I-I didn't think it was possible. Devera, could that really be Devera I saw? Her hair and skin are lighter and her freckles are missing but she's little and she's here and she needs my help. When I first saw the boy in the passageway, I didn't know what to do. No, I did. I just didn't want to be the cause of more death.

But I attacked him all the same, because I knew that was the only way I'd get home. Except, my swing missed. Because he'd grabbed a book from the bookshelf behind him and threw it at me.

The pain shouldn't have been much, after all I'd suffered, but I'd discovered that, instead of growing used to the agony a cut or bruise brought, I was only becoming more sensitive to it. Getting hit in the head with a book reminded me of all the pain this arena had brought and I just, just couldn't take it. My next swing had been a blind one, my eyes still screwed up tight thanks to the throbbing agony in my forehead, but I heard the cry and saw the blood when I finally managed to get up and follow the boy. I didn't want to, please, believe me, I didn't want to. It was just the only way I could get home.

Then I saw him after he found the way out of the passage and he had Devera in his arms, like Meredith had Devera when she threw her over the tower. But if Meredith had thrown Devera over the tower, what was she doing here now?

I didn't know and I didn't care. Seeing her there, though, sent a jolt of feeling through my system, an emotion so foreign I'd almost forgotten what it had felt like. Hope. Like the universe had brought Devera back, and was giving me a second chance to save her, to be selfless, to do the right thing. I could understand why she ran from me at first – after all I've done, I would have run from myself too. It was all right though, I'd shouted after her. I'd protect her now.

She's currently out of my sight though, and it worries me. These curved stairs are dangerous, she could stumble, she could trip, she could _fall_. Like last time. Devera, Devera, I can't let you die again, please, I can't! If I help you maybe, maybe everything will go back to how it should be. We could both go home to District 10, and my parents would love me and my friends wouldn't hate me and everything would be all right. That could happen, couldn't it?

The thought of having an actual happy ending to everything terrible that's been happening gives me enough strength to speed up, and soon I'm emerging into fresh air, with a glorious sunset painted out before me. That's exactly what a happy ending looks like, right?

But it's not. Because the moment I skid to a stop, I realise too late what's happening to Devera. The boy from before is staring in horror, a new girl I'd never seen before standing with her arm still outstretched – I've arrived just in time to see Devera's tiny body go plummeting over the tower edge. All over again.

"No!" I run to the low, stone blocks that separate castle from precipice, but it's too late. She just keeps falling, falling, falling . . . and then, with a crack I swear I can hear from up here, her body breaks across the ground below.

_BOOM!_

That sound, that awful sound. The sound that robs me of all hope, of all faith that I might get a happy ending out of this. Why, why did I even get my hopes up? I should have known.

Monsters don't get to live happily ever after.

But I'm not, I'm not the only monster. No, there's also _her_. Meredith, who's murdered Devera twice now. At least, I think it's Meredith that I see, as I turn to gaze upon the pair of tributes frozen in shock and horror. This girl's hair might be lighter, her eyes brown, not blue, but it's all the same, isn't it? She killed someone, and that means she's a monster. I-I'm one too. But maybe I can redeem myself just a bit by saving others from her.

She sees my swing coming too late, and her step back to avoid it does nothing as my blade slices through her already battered shirt. But the knife doesn't go far enough, and instead of dying she just falls to the ground, clutching her stomach and crying out in agony. That's . . . that's not right though. Because now she's not Meredith, but Malia, bleeding and sobbing due to pain _I_ caused. Again. Oh god, I've hurt someone again, killed them, no, no, no, not the guilt, not this, not this, not this again, oh god, no!

It's almost a relief when I feel the sword slip through my back. But then I fall to the ground, fading eyes catching sight of the boy from 8 as he stares at the other two remaining tributes. Mouths are moving, people are talking and no, no, what about me? Someone needs to help me, please, please, I'm dying and I'm scared and it hurts so, _so_ much. I k-killed Malia, but I helped her, too. I made death less scary. Why isn't anyone doing that for me? Please, please, someone take my hand and hug me and tell me everything's going to be all right, PLEASE! I'm not ready, I can't do this by myself. Mom, Dad, I need you, please, I love you and I'm sorry, I know I did terrible things but I . . . I'm so . . . so . . . s . . . sor . . . sorry . . .

* * *

><p><strong>Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female<strong>

My body and mind are screaming as one, in pain, guilt and shame. _It hurts! I'm injured, oh god, it hurts!_

_You killed a girl! You killed a little, defenceless girl!_

_It hurts!_

_I didn't know! I thought she was . . . I thought she was the boy from 8! That's who I wanted to push, that's who I figured would come up the stairs next, I thought he was right behind me!_

_It hurts!_

_That wasn't some bloodbath fight! That was an innocent twelve-year-old! Did you see her face when she looked at you? She didn't want to die, same as you! She was _twelve_!_

_It._

_But she had to eventually, didn't she? I can't die, I don't want to, so doesn't that . . . please, doesn't that justify it?_

_HURTS!_

"D-don't . . ." That's Taralo's voice. Taralo, Taralo, I need you please! Everything in my body is frozen with pain, yet somehow I manage to open my eyes, though my vision is dark and I can't make anything out at first. "Don't hurt her."

Slowly, my eyes start to focus, and I manage to see Taralo, standing just a few feet in front of me, his hands stretched out at his side as he stares, petrified at the boy from 8. But he stands his ground. Janaff opens his mouth to speak, but a cannon rents the evening air before he can utter a word, and instead, his gaze in drawn to the unmoving figure of the boy from 10. The sigh our opponent utters as he turns back to Taralo is one of complete and utter defeat.

"I'm sorry. But please, it's time to end this." He hefts his bloody sword in one hand and takes a deep breath. "It's time for someone to go home."

I want to, I want to so bad. Please, please! I just want to go home.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

The shaking in my body hasn't stopped since I got to this castle. Even after I thought I'd lost Calican in that secret passageway, even when I found the way out, even when I met Catherine again – the trembling never stopped. And now both Calican and Catherine are dead. I want to throw up, I want to faint, I want to run. But instead, I stay between Gwen and the boy from 8.

Until I was forced into this arena, I never really understood what death was. The only people I had in my life were my mother, my father, and Zephyr, and none of them had ever left. B-but here, Lore has gone, along with Catherine and Calican and Rowan and Ram and the others who I didn't see die. I've seen death now and it's h-horrible. I don't . . . I don't want to experience it.

And yet, Gwen shouldn't have to either.

_Lore, _I think, remembering my ally who achieved the impossible, who fought every instinct he had to save Gwen and me. _Lore, please, help me. Help me stay strong for Gwen._

So I stand here, frozen with fear, and wait for the final blow to come.

"Oh god . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

This is it. This is it. No qualms about morals or humanity now, I just want to go _home_. The remaining two tributes are defenceless; I lost Gwen at first when she gained that head start, but after searching through a few rooms, where I'd found the sword hanging above a fireplace like some sort of prize, I'd realised where she'd gone and, coincidentally, where all the other tributes had gathered as well. The District 10 boy was easy to kill with his back turned, a lot easier than killing should be. But it's good, it's good that it's easy. I have to do it twice more to get home.

For once, I don't feel like the calm, collected District 8 genius I've been all my life. Now, I'm a lost child, whimpering for their mother. Mom, I've been playing a game, a terrible, no-fun game. It's gone on for real long. And I want to go home now.

So my knife raises, my eyes focus on their target and I watch the District 6 boy flinch in fear as he prepares for his life to end.

No. No, no, no, no, wait.

"Oh god . . ."

I forgot. With all the fighting and pain and death, I completely forgot. About _her_.

Taralo turns around just in time to watch the dragon swoop down from the sky, fire bathing the boy's ally in orange and red before flesh turns black and slides off charred bones in puddles at his feet.

And over the sound of the cannon, over the sound of the District 6 boy retching and over the sound of the dragon's roar, I just barely manage to hear the words that freeze my heart with fear.

"Hello, boys! I can't believe you started the killing without me. Well, we'll just have to make up for lost time. Won't we?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>10 Bonus Points That Ultimately Count Towards Nothing if you can guess what the title of the next chapter will be called :D<strong>_

_**OH! Also, I was debating on potentially starting up a story alongside this. Like a fanfiction to my fanfiction, which seems kinda conceited, so I wasn't sure if I'd actually do it or not. But anyways, I got a lot of people who were interested in the mentors I introduced a few chapters back and who were potentially wanting to see more. So I was thinking of starting a collection of one-shots about the mentors' and events in their lives up to this point, since, if all goes as planned, a lot of them will feature more prominantly in my sequel to this (yes, there will be a sequel :D ). I dunno, would that be something people are interested in? Just let me know :)**_


	50. And Into the Fire

_**Wow, that was one heck of a tough chapter to write! Not necessarily the longest, but I've never been so indecisive in my life. I literally had an idea of who was going to win for almost the entire length of the Games - then, halfway through this chapter, I changed my mind :) I hope it's still good though, and lives up to everyone's expectations!**_

_**Also, I don't believe I thanked you guys yet for getting the review count over 400. So THANk YOU! :D This'll probably be the last 100 review count celebration, and I just wanted to thank you all for your continual support and dedication to reading a fic that, as LeviAntonius pointed out, is longer than the entire Hunger Games trilogy :) So thanks so much guys!**_

_**After this, I'd love to hear you reactions on the Games, seeing as this is their last chapter. What was your favourite moment? Saddest death? Favourite tribute? Hard to believe we started off with 24 when, by the end of this chapter, there will only be 1 :) So let me know what you've thought, it'll really help when the sequel starts!**_

_**Oh, and gore warning, obviously. 'Tis the finale after all :) Enjoy the last of the Games chapters!**_

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><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

For a moment, everything goes black. I can't see anything, can't feel anything except the iron grip of panic steadily tightening around my throat. But my ears must be working, because one name screams through my head over and over, so piercing and forceful that I think I'm going to be sick.

_MeredithMeredithMeredithMeredithMeredithMeredithMe redithMeredithMEREDITHMEREDITHMEREDITHMEREDITHMERE DITH!_

Her name resounds once more, louder than all the rest and I slap my hands to my ears in an effort to drown out the deafening chant. It doesn't disappear, not by a long shot – but my other senses do come back.

And with my returning vision comes the sight of roaring flames, rushing straight at me.

My mind is completely overrun by panic, so much so that I can't even comprehend scorching death as it prepares to engulf me. But my reflexes are still working, and while all I can focus on is approaching wall of fire, my body acts of its own accord – knees bend, head tucks in and suddenly I'm rolling back towards the stairwell. The pain as first my back, then my legs and arms hit the stone steps barely even registers. Hurting is good, good because it means I'm _still alive_. Which might not last for much longer.

The thought pushes me to my feet and before I know it, I'm sprinting down the stairs, taking them at least three at a time, every leap a risk that I might stumble, fall, break my neck. But that's nothing, _nothing _compared to the death I'm truly worried about. Flesh sliced from bone with lash after lash from her whip, or charred and melted by that, that _monster_. I can't take it, can't stand the thoughts and the mental images and all I can focus on is the pounding of my heart. And of the footsteps. Right behind me.

_It's her!_ The idea nearly forces an audible scream from my lips as I poor on the speed, desperate to escape Meredith's manic rage. Still, a smarter part of my mind reasons that she can't be following me, that she's stuck with her dragon, and even if she could walk on the sickening stumps that are her legs, she'd never be able to match me in speed. But this rational thinking is ignored, completely drowned out by total, utter panic.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and finally, some of my common sense seems to break through the wall of fear in my mind. _Janaff, Janaff, calm down. You need to think clearly, all right? Thinking is your best weapon right now and you need to use it. _But she's here, she's coming, she's right behind me! _No, no, she's not. Don't let your panic get the better of you. Think._

Think . . . r-right. It can't be Meredith, it's not. My mind is just conjuring up fearful hallucinations of footsteps in an unhelpful attempt to keep me on my guard. Slowly, I allow myself to stop, halting halfway down the hall to catch my breath. Yes, I just need to think. The castle walls protect me for now – I-I'm fine. I can do this.

Then someone slams into my back, sending us flying to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs.

Two screams ring out through the corridor as we try desperately to get away from each other – I think both of us were thinking we'd somehow run into _her_. But as I scramble away, shaking the fuzzy, panicked blur from my vision, I realise that for once, I don't have a cause to be more terrified in the arena. Because it was Taralo Hicken who just ran into me.

I guess he'd made it to the stairwell right after me, just before the fire burned us both to crisps. He doesn't look like he could last much longer though. Arm bleeding, pale and shaking – hard to believe a tribute like this has actually made it to the final three.

_Final three_. That's really . . . that's really it. The odds seem so insurmountable; the hope of going home – so high when I was fighting Gwen and Calican – dwindled to nothing the moment Meredith and her dragon made their appearance. But it never occurred to me that it's a one in three chance – I have a one in three chance of going home.

My eyes dart to the boy sitting in front of me. He's not even looking in my direction – too afraid of the bigger danger, I guess. And it occurs to me that I could do it; I could kill him right now, and bring my odds of winning up to one in two. I must have dropped my sword back on the tower when I ran, but I spent a bit of time at the hand-to-hand combat station during training. Strangling someone to death is slow, arduous job. But when all else fails . . .

I don't even manage to make a move before the entire castle seems to shake, and a deafening _crack_ comes from the tower's direction. Both of our gazes jump immediately to the stairwell we just came down, and we watch as first small, than larger and larger rocks come crashing down with each passing _boom, boom, boom_. It sounds a bit like thunder.

But I know better. No, it's nothing as benign as some storm that rocks the castle walls.

Meredith can't enter the castle, so she's going to drag us out. That, or let us die, crushed under a hundred tons of stone.

All thoughts of the District 6 boy disappear, replaced with cries of _no, no, it can't end like this!_ I'm actually so close – so heartbreakingly close. To die now, after everything I've been through, would be cruelty of the highest degree.

Though what else is there to expect from Meredith?

_Stop! Stop thinking like that! _I can't resign myself to death, not now, not ever. I've seen so many Games where tributes have tried and failed to get home. But I've never seen a single one where tributes who give up manage to emerge victorious.

Wait . . . I had a plan for this, didn't I? Yes, yes, of course! Before the music played, before the fighting started, I thought of a way to take down Meredith. But as another cacophonous _boom!_ rents the air, I realise it might not be as easy as I'd planned. Back when the idea had first occurred to me, none of the other tributes were in sight – especially not Meredith. I need _time _to put my strategy into action, time I really, really don't have. No, that's not fair! The logical part of my brain may realise that the Hunger Games have absolutely nothing to do with justice, but still, it's just not _fair_. I know how to defeat her, how to take her down; but time isn't a variable I can control. Please, can't the Capitol help for _once_? All I need is a little something to draw her attention away, some sort of distraction to get her . . .

Ah.

The Capitol might be cruel and withholding, even if they hate letting the insane tributes win. But someone _else_ might be kinder.

"Hey." Taralo jumps about a foot in the air and though I thought his pupils couldn't dilate any further, I'm instantly proved wrong. Only the faintest line of pale blue is visible around the circle of black as his gaze darts towards me, chest heaving up and down from the force of his gasping breaths. _Idiot, _says a cynical part of my mind, _what can this scrawny kid do for you? Look at him: he's about to faint from fear._

Still, this is the same kid who somehow found enough courage to stand between a bloody sword and his fallen ally. I don't need someone who can wield weapons expertly or shows absolutely no inkling of being scared in the face of death – I just need someone who can run fast enough to buy me the time I need.

"Listen," I say as another shock wave rocks the tower, causing me to pick up my speaking pace. I do not, _do not_ want to be stuck in here when this place collapses. "I know we were opponents only seconds ago, but I think we have a bigger problem now. What do you say we put aside our differences for now, unite against a common enemy?" _Just like the districts against the Capitol in the first rebellion. _I don't mention the reference, feeling that it would probably be lost on such a sheltered kid, but it comes to mind nonetheless. If only we could manage something like that again – get past these petty rivalries and divisions between Career and non-Career districts. The Capitol might not be able to win a second war.

And I realise, the victors are the key. I didn't see this much with my own mentor, but I liked to take walks during the nights we were in the Capitol – helped ease my nerves. As long as I didn't leave the building, the Peacekeepers were fine with it. Of course, that didn't leave many places to walk _to_, but I saw enough. A woman in her forties from District 7, helping an unstable teen from District 9 into the elevator to escort her back to her own floor. Two victors from District 5 and one from 4, returning to the Centre from who knew where, laughing and joking without a care in the world. Another man, younger and from District 7, preparing to leave the Centre, holding what appeared to be an invitation in his hand and looking very, very much like he'd rather go anywhere but where he was supposed to be heading. At least until a girl from 1 approached, saw the paper he held and, after looking around, failing to see me and assuming no one else was present, pulled him into a comforting embrace before they shared a long, lingering kiss.

People from different districts, Careers and non-Careers alike, yet they can somehow manage to talk, laugh, get along. Suddenly, getting out of here becomes the only option for me. I _can't _die – because the districts can't be forced to endure any more Hunger Games.

So I'll win, and change things. And maybe . . . maybe that will make up for killing the boy from 10.

Taralo still seems reluctant, and I can guess why; after all, he is being asked by someone who nearly killed him to help take down a deadly, enraged monster. And her pet dragon. "Look," I say, grasping desperately for something to add that might help convince him. "I'm sorry for earlier. But I can't . . . I can't do this alone. And if you don't help, we might both end up like your district partner."

I know it was harsh, mentioning Gwen so soon after her gruesome death, but I truly think it's necessary to motivate him. Taralo's whole body flinches at the thought, eyes widening, face paling; I think he's going to be sick again. But instead of bending over and retching all over the floor, he makes a gesture that sends a surge of hope soaring through my heart: he nods.

"Thank you." I reach over, offering a hand which he hesitantly takes, and pull him to his feet. We need to get out of here; this part of the castle certainly doesn't look like it's going to last much longer. "Okay, here's my plan . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

Is there anything more beautiful than tumbling rocks? I think not, Darrel! Unless the tumbling rocks were crushing someone. Ooh, then it'd be just delightful!

No, no, that wouldn't be good either! That would mean Janaff died by getting crushed, and then I wouldn't be able to have my fun with him! Unless the rocks just crushed him a _little _bit. Like if they fell right on his legs. Hah, wouldn't that be perfect! Like, um . . . oh, what do they call that? Irony? Poetic justice? Pfft, justice? Lame!

"Come on out, Janaff," I shout, though I don't know if he can hear me over the sounds of Darrel breathing fire and repeatedly crashing into the castle. "Come out and plaaaaaaay!"

"And we will play this time, got it, Darrel?" I mean to whisper in his ear, but sadly, I'm not close enough. And my harness doesn't exactly allow for lots of movement. "No mistakes like with _him_."

Ugh, even the thought of my district partner makes me want to puke! Perrin, Perrin, acting like the leader, never letting me have any fun, never letting me _kill _the way I wanted to. He didn't even let me murder _him_ like I'd planned! Oh, I'd imagined it all in my head. First I'd burn his legs off; we'd feel just like twins! Then both his arms; have to use fire of course, so the wound won't bleed out. Like how the explosion burned my stumps! But that's me; I want to talk about _Perrin_. And how, after I'd destroyed each limb with fire, I'd climb off Darrel so that I could be nearer to my _dear_ district partner. Then I'd use my whip, my nails and my teeth to draw out the pain as much as I could before he turned into my _dead_ district partner.

But Perrin didn't even let me get past stage one! All because _someone_ – Darrel, I'm looking at you – didn't lift their claw enough.

Don't worry though, Darrel dear; it's all behind us. Forgive and forget . . . pfft, yeah, right! If I did that, I wouldn't want to kill Janaff! And I do. In so, _so _many ways. Pity he can only die once.

Still, we'll make it good. After all, we've practiced now, haven't we Darrel? And practice makes perfect! Perrin was practice; Janaff is perfect! Well, no, no he's not. He's weak, pathetic, a _loser_. Loser of the Hunger Games. Because there can be only one winner. And you're looking at her, Darrel!

Wait . . . movement! See it, Darrel? There! Someone's running out the castle courtyard! Yes, yes, time to play, Janaff, time to _die_!

Aw, no; it's not Janaff. I know exactly what he looks like, have every inch of him memorised so I can fantasise about carving into it with my nails, just like what I did with his ankle. We're pretty high up, but even I can clearly see that whoever is running has _white_ hair. Not brown. Not Janaff!

_But he's still someone to kill. _The thought pops into my head immediately – or maybe it's not a thought, maybe Darrel's actually talking back to me for once – and continues, _He's still someone who needs to die. Another loser. Another loser of the Hunger Games._

Well, whether it's me or Darrel, they're right! People in this place mean only one thing: wimps! And all wimps must die for me to win – duh.

_Janaff, though. _Another part of my brain speaks up, quieter and more . . . collected? Sane? Ha, not sane. That would imply that the rest of me is _in_sane and that's just ridiculous! _What if you leave and Janaff runs and you never, ever see him again?_

Ooh, that's a good point. But there's a child running, a child to kill _right now_! I killed one girl earlier, melted her into nothing more than a puddle of goopy bits, but that's not satisfying enough! Where was the blood, the screams, the long, drawn-out torture? I want those things; I _need_ them. And Janaff, selfish Janaff, isn't giving them to me.

"Okay, Darrel, turn around!" I give a crack of my whip and tug on one of the harness ropes until he faces the direction I want. Wait; where did the kid go? My head jerks frantically from the left to the right, but there's no sign of the white-haired wimp. No, no! I've gotten myself so excited over the thought of the screams; they can't be taken away from me now!

It's okay, it's okay; think rationally, Meredith – what the heck does that even mean? No, never mind, doesn't matter; what does matter is the kid, the wimp, the _loser_ I need to kill! He went to . . . he went to . . . the forest! Of course! I snap my fingers and pat myself on the back for good measure. Brilliant! Of course he would have hidden in the forest; that's where _lame _things hide. And die. Rhine died in the forest. And Code. And my conscience.

Hah, I made a joke, Darrel! It's funny because I never had a conscience to begin with.

"Fly, Darrel, fly! Fly to the forest!" I whip him once and we're off, heading straight for the nearest patch of trees. Oh, but this is no fair! The tribute is playing hide and seek, and I always hated that game. You just find the other person, then it's over. And there's nothing I hate more than a swift ending to things; no, I want this nice and drawn-out. With as many screams as I can manage to fit in my schedule. Because, you know, I'm a very busy woman. Places to go, people to kill – specifically, Janaff. Yes, I'm booking a whole _day _off for him.

"So enough of this dumb game," I croon, tracing my fingers over one of Darrel's sleek, black scales. "I know I'm tired of it. Are you, Darrel? Yes, I think you are." My lips twist into a grin as I give him two lashings in rapid succession – our code for _kill everything with fire! _"Let's flush him out."

I can't believe I wasted all my time at the District 4 training centre practicing with mere _weapons_. Flames, flames are the only way to go. Look at them! So magnificent, dancing across vibrant green trees and turning them black and lifeless in seconds. Even the grass wants to mimic the beauty of fire, taking on a yellowish hue as the heat dries them out. Of course, the most flattering way to present flames is alongside a heap of charred and smoking flesh, but that will come soon. You have to ramp up to the big stuff.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" How _rude_ these losers are? Perrin, Janaff, this kid: none of them ever answer me. Me! Well, you know what, fine. Darrel is better company than any mere human.

I'm preparing to whip my darling pet again, let him spew another bout of flames across the forest, but one thought stays my hand. Hmm . . . if I burn too much, could I accidentally _kill_ the boy I'm searching for? Probably; these tributes are so _unbearably_ weak. Can't even manage to see my games through to the end, let alone enjoy them. Honestly, I don't know what's wrong with people these days. They're _games_, I'm _playing_; have a bit of fun!

I ponder the burning forest, mind whirring with solutions to this problem and of course, being the genius that I am, I come up with one. I'll just _land_. See? Brilliant!

"All right, Darrel, down we go!" My fist pounds repeatedly on his head until he gets the idea – poor Darrel, he can be so slow at times – and finally, we make our descent. Eugh, it's smokier down here than I thought; but who cares! I'll find this loser – whoever they are – make sure they _are_ a loser – even though it goes without saying – and then return to Janaff for the final bit of fun! I don't know what comes after, can't quite remember; but if it involves more killing, Darrel and I are all for it!

But first, the winner must take care of two losers. "So come out," I whisper, cracking my whip in anticipation of the death soon to come. "Come out and _play_."

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'M GOING TO DIE!

It's all I can do to stop the sob building up in my throat but the thought that any noise I make could lead to my death helps in keeping silent. The coughing is also hard to stop; at least the wind is blowing the fire and smoke away from my position, or it'd be much, much worse.

But that doesn't really matter, because a moment after the dragon stops breathing fire, the ground seems to lurch, forcing me to grab the tree I'm hiding behind for support. _Don't look!_ my mind screams, influenced by a lifetime of cowering inside my own home. Yet my reflexes act the same way after I punched the dwarf, and I find myself unable to stop my head from peeking around the trunk to see what's going on.

_Oh god!_ I whip back around behind the tree, new tears forming in my eyes at the thought of the scene I just witness. T-t-the dragon . . . it just landed. And I can hear _her_ voice, mocking, calling out, "Ohh kiddy! Or do you prefer loser? Wimp? Which one? Come on, you can tell me – I don't bite. But Darrel does!"

Splinters worm their way into my palms as my hands press into the bark, a failed attempt at melting into the tree and disappearing from view. It's getting harder and harder not to break down and cry, fear of death the only thing that's stopping me. No, no please! I've barely lived, haven't been told anything about dying. Is it scary? Does it hurt? Mother, Father, where are you?! There's nobody left, everyone's gone, everyone's _dead_ and I need . . . I need . . .

A hero. That's what always happened in the fairytales. A hero would come along, at the very last moment, and save everybody. But twenty-one of us have already died. And none of the people left are heroes. I-I know I can't be. Neither is that girl, Meredith – no, she's the villain, the one who's supposed to be defeated in the end. But what if that doesn't happen soon enough?

Then there's Janaff. I don't . . . I don't know what to think of him. He was ready to kill both me and Gwen. But now he wants to help me.

Although in my heart, I know that's not the case. What happens to a hero, once he defeats the villain? Does he remain noble and loyal, or ignore his values to survive? The storybooks may end one way; but this place just loves to prove them wrong.

Oh, why couldn't I be back with Lore and Gwen? They were brave, kind – everything heroes should be. Yet Lore couldn't defeat the huntsman who failed to show mercy. And Gwen . . . Gwen . . .

My stomach twists as the scene flashes before my eyes and I clench my lips together tightly, knowing that if I throw up now, Meredith might hear it. Still, that doesn't stop the bile from rising in my throat at the thought of Gwen, Gwen melting, Gwen burning, the sickening smell of charred flesh as it cooked and warped beneath the dragon's flames and oh god, I'm going to- I'm going to-

"Really, it's rude to hide like this!" For once, I'm almost glad to hear Meredith speak. It reminds me just how close death is, and just how much I have to lose by making any noise. My hands go immediately to my moth necklace, eyes stinging with new tears caused by the acidic pain in my throat. But I can't allow anything to pass through my lips, I _have_ to remain silent. "I don't know about you, but I have a very busy schedule! And I'm sure Janaff wouldn't want to be kept waiting! Wouldn't you, Janaff? Mm, silly me, you can't hear! You're at the castle . . . the castle . . . hm. Darrel! I believe it's time for a road trip!"

She continues to laugh maniacally, exclaiming that her dragon doesn't need roads, but I tune her out, too intent on her earlier words. She's . . . she's leaving! I'm going to live, I won't die, I'll-

No. She's going to head back to the castle. And Janaff said he was setting up his plan there, that I had to keep her in this position or it wouldn't work. He might not be the most trustworthy person, but I don't have any other options. If she gets there, before he's ready, he'll be doomed. Then _I'll _be doomed.

And the villain will win.

Suddenly, a blaring noise booms through the arena, shocking me so much that I nearly jump out from my hiding spot. My first thought is that it's over, it's done; the dragon is roaring as Meredith flies away to kill the one person who might be able to take her down. But after another moment of listening, I realise it's not the bellow of a beast. It's . . . music?

Not the slow, haunting tune we heard earlier, though. No, this is more familiar, a song I've heard every night since I entered this place. It's-

"Haha, look at that, Darrel! Remember him? Oh, he had such a pretty face. Before we burned it off!" The anthem continues as an image of the boy from 1 is shown in the sky. Loud music used to scare me, but now I couldn't be more grateful for it; getting down on my hands and knees, I allow myself to cough up the meagre breakfast Gwen and I ate this morning, the retching noises thankfully obscured by the anthem. _Good, get it out. And breathe,_ part of my mind says, a part more confident than I've ever sounded. _You've still got work to do._

Work . . . k-keeping Meredith here? But I can't, I just- I can't! I can hear her, cackling over the boy from 4's death and recounting it in vivid detail. It makes me want to throw up all over again; how can I hope to keep her here when I can't even stand to hear her talk? The only way to distract her is to present her with a target. And I just _can't_. I'd die.

"What? WHAT?! Who killed her? Who _dared_ to kill her? No! I said they were all mine! My playthings! Who. Stole. My. FUN?!"

It's Catherine she's talking about. Her face has flashed into view, so young and innocent that my heart just breaks. Catherine, who I just hugged not an hour ago. I had her arms around me, felt the warmth she gave off, heard her sobs as she showed the first sign of weakness I'd seen since we'd met. She was three years younger than me, and yet had such enormous amounts of courage, ones I could never hope to gain. So why is she gone, with me still here? It doesn't make sense, it's not _fair_ – but I couldn't do anything to save her.

"Oho, but I got her! Oh, wasn't that a delicious death, Darrel? Delicious, hah! I sound like I'm going to eat her! WHICH I'M NOT! Don't get any ideas, Gamemakers! I mean her death was divine. And bloody, and gory and _fiery_."

Gwen. That's Gwen's face in the sky, that's Gwen's death she's talking about. And, for the first time in my life, I feel a small seed of emotion not closely connected to fear. No, I think it's . . .

Anger.

Gwen had been through enough pain, had suffered everything to get back home like she wanted. Snow White was supposed to have a merciful huntsman, but he was vicious and bloodthirsty and insane. She was supposed to have seven kind dwarves to take her in and help her, but they were monsters, flesh-eating and demonic. Life isn't a fairytale, I know – but after all that, after _all that_, the evil queen is going to win. Do things have to be that bad?

No. T-that's too much. Maybe Janaff isn't a hero in the same way my old allies, but he still wants to defeat Meredith. Lore would always say to me, "If I don't win, I hope you or Gwen do." He c-can't win now. Neither can Gwen. And I don't . . . I don't know if I can.

But if I don't win, I hope Janaff does. Mother always said this world was awful; I never fully realised how true that was until now. Still, I can- I think I can change it. Or try to. Because after killing all those people, after killing _Gwen_, the evil queen does not deserve to live.

She's raging about the death of the boy from 10 when I see it. A distraction, a way to keep Meredith in one place so Janaff can complete his plan. When the anthem plays, the sky darkens and the moon comes out – but so do those little fairy lights. One of them is lazily drifting nearby, slowly coming closer to my position behind the tree. I don't think it's seen me yet though, or it would have attacked; Lore, Gwen and I saw what they did the first night in the arena when a poor squirrel got in its way. I know a dragon's no squirrel, but I don't need it to kill the monster – though that'd be nice. No, just distract it.

But this, this is crazy, isn't it? What if I don't move quickly enough and the fairy attacks me, what if Meredith sees me and the dragon breathes fire, what if . . .?

_Go for it, Taralo. _It's almost as if I can hear Lore's voice in my head, reassuring me, encouraging me. This is exactly the sort of hare-brained scheme he used to enjoy. _Do it. Can you imagine the expression on her face? Might make everything we've gone through in the arena worth it._

_Please do it. For me and Gwen._

My shirt's been ripped and stained in more places than I can count, but it could still work. My fingers are trembling as I slowly pull it off over my head, but even then, they're steadier than usual. Odd, because this has to be the most terrifying thing I've ever done. A murderous fairy in front, a giant dragon and its mad master behind; how have I not dissolved into a complete panic attack yet?

I guess, maybe, because things couldn't get any worse. It was always the fears I imagined that terrified me, but now I know that there's nothing, _nothing _scarier than what I'm about to face. And yet, I'm doing something about it. One of my biggest worries back when I was with Gwen and Lore was that I was weighing them down. I couldn't use a weapon, couldn't build shelter, couldn't be brave. Couldn't do anything. And they both suffered for it.

T-they're both beyond my help now. But if they were here, I know neither would want the evil queen to win.

It's this knowledge that gets me moving, and without even thinking, I'm leaping forward towards the fairy. Something not unlike a squeal comes from the orb of light, and, ready for the attack, it zooms straight towards me.

Right into my shirt.

I'd stretched the material out as much as I could between both of my hands, and as soon as the fairy comes close enough, I bring my arms together, effectively ensnaring it in a mess of fabric. Not for long, though; the thing is hot, and in addition to the burns slowly beginning to appear on the shirt, I can feel tiny claws scratching away at the material. In seconds, it'll be free.

So, for once in my life, I don't hesitate. I just grab the ends of the bundle and hurl it away from the forest with as much force as I can muster, watching it sail through the air, about to land . . . landing . . .

Right in front of the dragon.

"What was that?" The tiny good feeling I'd started to have – almost like triumph – disappears as soon as Meredith snaps out of her rant about not getting to kill Calican. My back is firmly pressed back against the tree, knees trembling once more, and suddenly I'm not filled with confidence or a desire to do things, but a sensation of utmost terror. _Why, _why _did I do that? _"So, someone wants to play catch, do they?" _Oh god, oh god, this is it, this is . . . oh god, no!_ "Well, I like that better than hide and seek."

My eyes are shut tight, mouth moving in a soundless prayer while my fingers grate into the bark, too petrified to even try grabbing my moth necklace. This is how I wait for my death.

But none comes.

Because at that moment, the fairy breaks out of my shirt.

I can't see anything, nothing but the darkness that I'm terrified will become permanent once Meredith and the dragon murder me. But I can hear the cry of, "A light bulb? A _flying_ light bulb? Are you trying to replace Darrel? Let me tell you, Darrel can fly _and_ cause a lot more light than you. Want to-"

But her words are cut off, replaced by an irritated squawk, along with a growl from the dragon that quickly becomes a roar. For the second time today, my mind screams to not move while my head does the exact opposite and I find myself shakily peering around the tree to see what I think might be the most beautiful sight I've ever witnessed.

The fairies are _fast_. And tiny. These combined strengths, when attacking a big, slow dragon and a girl who can't change her position at all, serve incredibly well. The little pink orb is all but a blur as it darts around, trying to claw and burn the both Meredith and her beast. I don't know if it's having much success with the mutt, thanks to the scales covering most of its body, but Meredith's reaction is enough for both of them.

"Burns!" Her screams, always sounding pretty close to animalistic, are now positively bestial as the fairy zips closer to her. "Burns, burns, BURNS! No! Not again, no explosions, no legs! Legs! Charred and gone, Janaff! Is this your plan again? To make me . . . burns, BURNS!"

Each of her shrieks is punctuated by a crack of her whip, but even her lightning-fast weapon can't match the speed of the fairy. Beneath Meredith, the dragon is snapping and biting at the flying orb, tail swishing wildly back and forth, though nothing it does manages to even touch the sprite. Still, it's roaring so loud that it barely hears Meredith, who seems to have gotten over her initial rage enough to shout, "Up! Darrel, UP!"

No! They're going to move away, away, what about Janaff's plan? If they move, i-it's all over. But it has to work, she has to be stopped, good has to win! _Please_. I-I thought- I thought I could help . . .

Powerful winds stir as the dragon beats its wings, whipping my hair across my face and rustling the leaves of my tree wildly, causing more than a few to fly off and scatter. No, no, that's my cover! I sink lower behind the tree, on my knees as I watch Meredith and the dragon rise. _Run, _I tell myself, _RUN!_ But my legs, my arms, everything is locked in place. T-this is it. I couldn't do it.

The force of the winds sends the fairy careening away from the dragon, pushing it with enough power that it explodes upon contact. It's a detail Meredith doesn't miss, and even from here, I can see that mad grin stretch wide across her face. "I did it! I DID IT! I foiled your plan, Janaff! No more bombs and burns for you! I mean, for me. For you, there will be PLENTY of burns!" She cackles, whipping her dragon twice as they hover on the spot. Slowly, his mouth begins to open – and I know, I know exactly what's going to happen. But I can't move; I can't move! N-n-n-n-no, I w-w-wanted to be b-brave, b-b-be a h-hero and I t-tried, I _tried,_ doesn't that count? D-doesn't it? P-please?

Then there's a deafening crash and finally, _finally_, Janaff's real plan is set into play.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

I almost ran. Once Taralo had cleared the courtyard, and once I'd been sure Meredith was following him, I nearly left him to die. The wooden gates looked so inviting, and both tributes were all the way by the burning forest. I could slip out, go around behind the castle and sprint to the safety of different trees. I was a pretty fast runner to begin with, and the arena has only helped to enhance that skill. I could make it; I knew I could.

But there'd be nowhere for me to hide. The flames of the dragon would touch every corner of the arena; Meredith would burn the whole place down if she had to. And the Capitol would make sure she did too. Originally, I'd had hope that the Gamemakers might interfere; they've killed off crazy tributes before. No one wants an unstable victor – at least, more unstable than they usually are. But now it's clear that I'm on my own. No hope that this fairytale arena might get a fairytale ending.

Which was why I'd wanted to leave. I'd been so close, so, _so_ close to letting ever cowardly instinct I had take over. But I couldn't, for two reasons. One, the only weapon that had any hope of taking down a dragon was here. And two . . . I couldn't leave Taralo like that. Using him as a distraction to take down Meredith had been one thing; the kid was so frail, I was sure he'd die as soon as he left the castle walls. But he'd made it to the forest, and was keeping Meredith in the exact position I needed. This kid, who'd entered the arena a scared, sheltered little boy, who had nearly been murdered by me only a short while before, was helping me now. Leaving him to die would be a much worse crime than killing the boy from 10.

So I open the wooden gates, but don't run through them, even though I desperately want to. Meredith may be a good distance away, but that doesn't change the fact that she's right in front of me. If she so much as turns her head, I'm dead. _Deep breaths, Janaff, _I tell myself, as I head back into the courtyard. _Deep breaths._

Of course, I have no idea if this will actually work. The weapons stations at the Training Centre may have been quite extensive, but none of them even began to cover how to work a catapult.

Or three, to be exact. I'd noticed them when I first entered the castle, but hadn't really taken much interest – at the time, I'd figured any fight I had would be in relatively close range. Meredith having a dragon wasn't revealed until earlier today. But, looking them over as I push them through the open gates – slow going as, even with their wheels, it's like trying to move a car – they appear to be rather simple. I'd actually read about how to operate one back when I was ten, and had been going through a medieval fantasy phase. My grandfather had given me every book on the subject, and of course, catapults were wildly used. This kind was known as an onager, loaded by winching an arm down. At the end, there would be a sort of bowl to place the projectile in and, thanks to the Gamemakers' wonderful attention to detail, a pile of rocks were already present in the courtyard to be used as such. After that, all you had to do was shove a lever down and watch the catapult go to work.

In theory. Whether it actually worked or not would remain to be seen.

I shudder at the thought as I work on shoving the next catapult out of the courtyard. What if . . . what if it doesn't work? God, I wish that wasn't such an easy question to answer. _If it doesn't work, you're dead. Taralo's dead. Meredith wins._

"No," I whisper, the word coming out between panting gasps as I strain my arms. That just, that just can't happen. Never mind what the Gamemakers want, would the universe really allow _that_ to be the outcome? Every book I ever read, every lesson I was taught as a child, always said evil was defeated and good rewarded. Could life really be that unfair?

_The Capitol murdered your parents when you were too young to even remember, yet they had you reaped just in case you were like them. They take innocent children every year and slaughter them as a reminder that those who seek a better life can never have one. They twist minds, break hearts and destroy hope. Of course life could be that unfair._

The thought sends a spike of anger piercing through my cloud of fear, and with a sudden burst of energy, I shove the second catapult into place. Just one more now; I glance worriedly in Meredith's direction, knowing that at any moment, she could turn around and fly back here. As much as I hate it, as much as it terrifies me, I know I'm her main target. Taralo wasn't responsible for melting her legs in an explosion; I doubt she even knows his name. And if she gets bored with him . . .

Without warning, music blares through the arena and I nearly jump out of my skin, mind automatically recalling the twisted version of _In the Land of the Sun_ that played out through the arena earlier. No, no – this song is quicker, more upbeat. The anthem. Of course; in light of the threat Meredith posed, I'd barely paid attention to my surroundings, which were steadily darkening with the coming night. Better act fast then – I didn't want to be stuck unable to see my target when it came time to release the catapults.

It takes the entire song for me to move the final one into place, and by now, I'm sweating profusely, arms and legs limp and wobbling from the effort they exerted. But I'm not done yet. After a quick glance towards Meredith, I head back inside the courtyard once more, this time to carry the much lighter rocks out. Ah, scratch that; they're heavy enough that I'm forced to roll them out individually. Winching the arm down and heaving them up into the catapult buckets is even harder; I'm positive my arms are going to break from the strain by the end of it. But every time I feel like quitting, all it takes is a look at the dragon to remind myself exactly what I stand to lose if I stop.

I can't believe this, though. Enough time has passed for me to get all three catapults, plus the ammunition out of the courtyard, and yet Meredith hasn't made a move, nor has a cannon sounded. Taralo must be more competent than I thought. The idea causes my heart to twitch in regret as I winch the final arm down; as much as I wanted my plan to succeed, a small part of me was also sort of hoping Taralo would die while being a distraction. So far, we've both been motivated by the same goal: kill Meredith. If that's done while both of us are still alive . . .

I was completely prepared to throw morality to the wind a while ago, when I killed Calican and nearly did the same to Taralo and Gwen. Because I want to go home – I just want to go home. But if Taralo helps me, and survives, would I be able to finish him? To murder someone who essentially saved my life? I don't know. But I highly doubt he'd be able to kill me. Which really leaves only one option.

One that makes me sick to contemplate and I quickly force if from my mind. I'll think about that later; who knows, we might not even survive this. If the catapults don't work, it's all over and Meredith wins.

Speaking of Meredith . . . I glance over at the dragon and my heart nearly stops to see it rising in the air. It hasn't turned, not yet, but any moment now it could and then we're dead, _I'm _dead and after getting so close that's just, just . . . _no_. I can already picture my grandparents' faces, just want to go home to them, get out of this arena and to be burned by a dragon, burned to a crisp, charred and blackened like that girl, Gwen, I-

_Get a hold of yourself!_ I nearly snap out loud, but even in my head, it's enough to clear the fear, if only for a moment. The dragon is hovering in place, there's _still a chance_. So I don't hesitate to leap for the nearest catapult and yank the lever down.

I don't even stop to watch it crash, but I do notice out of the corner of my eye that it flies far to the right of Meredith. _No, no!_ I've only got three shots at this, and one of them was just wasted. But I can't let that stop me, because while a miss means death, so does a hesitation. So I pull the next lever down, and this time I can't help but pause and watch it fly, hitting the dragon's tail as it swings through the air. _Not quite where I wanted, but close._ It gives me a sense of pride, of hope. It lets me know that this might actually work.

But the good feelings stop as soon one monstrous, red eye turns to glare in my direction, accompanied no doubt by a pair of smaller, ice blue ones, though I can't see them from this distance. She's watching though, I know she is; only her gaze could make my blood run cold, my heart freeze up in my chest, my breath dry in my throat. I'm paralysed by a panic I can't break and oh god, oh god, oh god!

It's not until she starts flying towards me that I remember the last catapult at my side.

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

What? WHAT?! He had . . . you had TWO plans? Oh, Janaff, you nasty boy, you wimp, you LOSER! Two plans is not allowed, that's too much! Or two much. Heh.

_No_. The time for jokes is _over_, Darrel. It was over the moment that, that _thing _came at us. And burned. It burned like the explosion, like my legs. YOU'RE NOT GETTING THE REST OF ME! I'm the only one who burns people now, I'm the one who lives and watches and laughs! Not the one feeling pain! Pain and burning and charred, crisped legs quickly disappearing, _melting _under the fires of-

"NO!" I shriek, and whip Darrel to make him fly faster. We're heading straight for the castle, straight for where I _know _Janaff will be. I can feel it. The other boy was a decoy, part of Janaff's little traps. Well, I figured it out! WHO'S SMART NOW?

Me. And he is _dead_. I lift my whip, ready to crack it down again, but something catches my eyes. Something small, but getting bigger and bigger as we get closer to it. Or it gets closer to us. What is . . . oh, rock!

I yank Darrel's rope to force him away, but he's not quick enough; the stone is flying right at us, and my scream is in sync with Darrel's roar as the rock goes right through the thin, leathery surface of his left wing.

"No! No, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Over and over again, I shriek the word as we go spiralling towards the ground, Darrel's one good wing unable to keep us up. It's enough to ease our fall though, and my harness holds firm as Darrel slides through the dirt, coming to a crashing halt a mere hundred metres from the castle. "NO, NO, NO, NO! JANAFF!" Darrel roars as I whip him, though he probably didn't even feel my blow. Too caught up in the pain of his own injury. Well, _deal with it, _Darrel. You want to feel better? Kill the one responsible; KILL JANAFF! He's taken MORE than enough from us!

It takes six more lashes for Darrel to finally understand what I want, and finally, fire gushes from his mouth, bathing the stones in beautiful orange light. _But only beautiful on other people. Not me. SEE, JANAFF? SEE? THIS IS WHY YOU DON'T BURN ME!_

I laugh as Darrel lumbers closer to the castle, and force him to whip his tail against the outer walls. Oh, Janaff's trapped now, like a rat in cage. I saw rats earlier today, and you know what I did? I KILLED AND ATE THEM! And you're going to get the same, Janaff. Only it will take _ages_. Because the rats only squeaked and that's no fun. But you, you're going to _scream _for me.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

My vision nearly goes black as I hear Meredith take off, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline dissipating and leaving me weak and exhausted. There have been so many, _so many_ moments where I thought I might die in this place but that was by far the most terrifying.

A huge part of me wants to just collapse on the spot and sleep for at least a year, but I force myself to keep my eyes open. This isn't over yet. Every muscle, sore after staying tense with fear for so long, screams as I slowly push myself into a standing position. It feels like I've aged sixty years in the past two minutes. At least Meredith is gone for now; I would be completely helpless if she came back.

_Not that you aren't already._ She's back at the castle, the dragon tearing it to pieces from the ground because, by some miracle, Janaff's plan worked. The monster can't fly. So the odds of good winning have gone up, just a little bit. But they won't stay up long if someone doesn't do something soon.

I watch as an entire tower collapses and flinch, knowing that Janaff must be somewhere inside the castle. We didn't . . . we didn't come up with a plan for this. I don't think either of us were even expecting the catapults to work.

No, no; we did discuss this. But only briefly.

"_. . . And that'll kill their flight power," Janaff finishes explaining as we run through the shaking castle. "Give us more of a chance."_

"_W-w-what about . . ." I can't seem to find the words; it's hard to talk to someone who nearly killed you only a few minutes ago. "A-after?"_

_His face is grim, as though he can't imagine us getting that far. "Well, if we can separate her from the dragon, we might actually be able to pull this off."_

"_H-how do w-we do that?"_

_He bites his lip, and I can practically see the gears turning in his mind. "I don't know yet. Just focus on staying alive for now. We'll deal with other problems later."_

Cross that bridge when we come to it. Like Lore always used to say. Well, I-I think we've crossed that bridge, and come face to face with a giant, murderous dragon and its master. But what do we do, what do we do?! Janaff came up with the plans, he's the one with the good ideas! And all he said was separate her from the dragon. H-how?

As much as I don't want to answer, I know there's only one way. She stays attached to the dragon by the rope, tied from her waist to either horn. It won't break easily. Which means, unless the catapults have somehow survived the destruction at the castle, someone will have to climb up on the beast and cut her loose.

It's almost too perfect how, at that moment, my eyes land on a sharp rock nearby that could just about do the job. Or maybe too terrible is more of the expression. I j-just, I-I . . . me? I c-can't- c-c-could never do something like that! Throwing the fairy was one thing – I could do that from my hiding spot. But going out in the open, right up to the d-dragon and _climbing _it? No, n-n-no; t-that's for the heroes. N-not me.

B-but . . . the heroes are all gone. L-Lore and Gwen and little C-Catherine: a-all gone. Even Zephyr isn't here to help me. Who steps in when there are no heroes?

_Think of all you've done since you left the house. You rode a train. You braved the chariot rides. _

Who steps in when there are no heroes?

_You survived the bloodbath. You tried to save Gwen when you thought she'd been poisoned._

Who steps in when there are no heroes?

_You helped your allies through a booby trapped maze and lived to tell the tale. You tried to protect Gwen from the huntsman. You punched a dwarf. You helped Gwen walk. You escaped Calican. You stood between Janaff and Gwen knowing full well he'd kill you. You distracted a dragon. You threw a vicious fairy at an evil villain._

Who steps in when there are no heroes?

_You._

Well, w-whoever's left.

My fingers scramble around the rock as I try to swallow every sob that's built itself in the back of my throat. One for my parents. One for Lore. One for Catherine. One for Gwen. And countless other, more selfish ones, for myself. For having to endure these Games. For having this be the only glimpse I might ever see of life outside my front door.

I could just leave Janaff, and run. But I know I'd never make it far – I've never been on my own, never in my entire life. If I can do this, maybe Janaff will think of some other plan to stop Meredith. Maybe – though I know it's a dumb hope because Gwen told me so when I said the same thing to her – maybe we can both go home.

My feet take off without me even thinking about it, and I don't really register that I'm sprinting towards the dragon until I'm halfway there. I can't form a proper thought at all; my mind is too busy screaming, blaring as many warning signals as it can. _You're going to get yourself killed! Stop! STOP!_

I want to. I-I really do. But someone needs to do this. I don't- don't know what happens after death, but I think all the kids in here would hate to know that they died only for evil to win. Someone needs to change that. S-someone needs to get a happy ending.

I don't know if I'm the person to do that. But I can try.

Even as I run, I'm cringing, half-expecting the dragon to turn around and blast flames in my direction, but neither its focus nor Meredith's wavers; they're both intent on destroying the castle, probably to get at Janaff. The thought makes me speed up, and before I know it, I'm dodging the dragon's swinging tail to reach its back claw.

Being here, so close to it, almost makes me want to run again. Its talons are longer than me, wicked sharp and the whole monster smells like charred flesh. I nearly gag at the memory of Gwen, but force my mouth shut. No, no, I can't stop now. Any hesitation could lead to the dragon killing me. Or my shaky determination being overrun by cowardly reflexes.

So I take a deep breath – instantly regretting it as my nose fills with the sickening scent of the beast – and my one, free hand goes to my moth necklace. Its death marked the beginning of all these terrible events. Funny, when it was alive, I tried helping it; now, in death, it's helped me. I feel almost like a moth myself, only instead of flying free before getting stuck in the curtains, it's been the opposite. The curtains may be safe, warm and comforting – but they don't allow you to go anywhere. Getting past them, you run the risk of getting squashed by a boot, but there's just so much . . . more out here. Even though right now, I'd much rather be back in my cozy, comfortable, confining home.

And there's only really one way to get there. I take one more deep breath – through my mouth this time – trying to prepare myself for what comes next. Then, slowly, _achingly _slowly, I stretch my arm out, hand reaching for the claw before my fingers finally brush against the smooth scales of the dragon's leg.

Immediately, I jerk my head around, terrified that I'll find an angry, red eye staring back at me. But no, it's still focused on the castle; with all these scales, I doubt it even noticed by touch. I wouldn't call the idea reassuring, not with what I'm about to do, but it makes this, I don't know . . . less scary? No, not less scary – not when there's a gigantic, fire-breathing dragon I need to climb. But I somehow do muster up the resolve to stick the rock in my pocket and grab the leg with both hands before finally beginning my climb.

The ridges of the dragon's scales make it easier to climb than I thought, the fact that it's staying in one place also helping. Funny, I was a nervous, shaking wreck back when I was hiding, but now my arms and legs are perfectly still. The panic is still there, but it's being repressed by a bigger, more powerful feeling: the desire to survive. And if I allow my knees to buckle in fear even once while I'm up here, I could fall to my death.

_Like climbing a hill, _I tell myself, trying to keep calm as I slowly inch my way on all fours across the dragon's back. _A gigantic, breathing, black hill. Pretend you're with Lore and Gwen again. Pretend you're safe._

And is it my imagination, or do I almost see he outlines of my allies, beckoning me forward?

Straight down the centre of the dragon's back are some more protruding spikes, and it's these I use to pull myself into a standing position before turning towards the beast's head. Hand over hand, step by step, I use each passing spike to guide me over the shuddering back of the dragon, heading straight for the neck. Twice, my foot slips and I nearly turn back right then and there, telling myself I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this. But somehow, I manage to regain my footing – and enough courage to keep going.

The spikes start to grow smaller as they reach the dragon's throat, to a point where I can't use them to make the climb up to the beast's head. But its horns are long, protruding over the dragon's neck; could I . . .?

_For the heroes. For the heroes. For the heroes, _I repeat to myself, thinking of Gwen and Lore and all the others as I balance myself on the last spike. Reluctantly, my hands peel away from its surface, and I stand straight up, trying to grab one of the dragon's horns in my hands. Maybe just a little more . . . no, I can't reach! I'll have to- have to . . .

Jump.

Normally, I would hesitate; take a breath, close my eyes, grab the moth and ask for Zephyr to reassure me. But my position balanced on the spike is precarious enough, and I have no time to think about jumping before I do just that. All I have time for is a whispered, "_Please_."

The fact that my hands actually touch the smooth surface of the horn as I leap is so surprising I nearly let go in shock – instead, my fingers quickly tighten around the bone. Thank goodness, because a second later, the dragon jerks its head right to blast more fire at the castle and I'm almost flung off. A cry of fright tries to make its way through my lips, but I bite my tongue as hard as I can to keep it in; I'm only two metres from Meredith, the rope she's tied to attached at the base of my horn. If I swing myself hand over hand across the horizontal part of the spike, I'll be able to stand behind her on the head and cut the rope from there. But no, no, that could never work! She'll see me for sure, and toss me to the dragon and-

_No, Taralo. _It's Lore's voice I hear in my head, louder than the dragon, louder than Meredith, louder than everything. _Buddy, this is going to be amazing! You can do it, definitely. Don't worry – Gwen and I will be with you every step of the way._

* * *

><p><strong>Meredith Blade, District 4 Female<strong>

Fire and rocks, fire and rocks everywhere but NO JANAFF! And no cannon, so I know he's not dead. No, no, he's _hiding_; hiding and sneaking and plotting my demise and NO! Not again, Janaff, not again. You've made too many plans, and now it's time for my plan to work. My plan, MINE! So come out and play, Janaff; come out and _die._

"Find him, Darrel! Find him, find him, FIND HIM, _BURN_ HIM!" Where is he?! People don't just disappear! I whip my head to the right, desperately searching, but there's nothing, THERE'S NOTHING, so I look to the left and . . .

Something. But not Janaff.

The boy doesn't even notice me staring at him until a second later, and when he does, his eyes grow almost as big as Darrel's. But these are red; no, these are pale blue, pupils enormous and it's that boy, that boy from before! The one who was part of Janaff's trap.

"NO!" I screech at him, and he jumps, nearly dropping a rock he holds tightly in his hand. A weapon. A weapon! "NO, NO, NO!" If he's here, that must mean Janaff has another trap planned. "NO!"

I lash out at him with my whip, and a red line appears across his cheek and down his arm as a short cry escapes his lips. A cry: a baby scream. Oh, I haven't heard screams since Perrin died.

I whip him again, but he's gone around the other side of the horn, and my weapon hits nothing. No, no! He's hiding – like Janaff! And hiding means plotting and I will not stand for it! No more plots, no more plans; only death and fire.

Lunging forward with stumps for legs is difficult, but I try it all the same. Something yanks me back though, and I jerk wildly around, sure that I'm going to see Janaff holding me, grinning, with another bomb in his hand. Or one of those glowing orbs. NO BURNS! I crack my whip in his direction, but not his direction, because he's not there; my harness is what's holding me back. Oh, they thing that will stop me? My free hand tugs quickly at the knot around my waist, and soon I'm no longer attached to Darrel's right horn. But that's fine, fine because I'm leaving to _kill_. First this boy. Then Janaff.

His wide eyes peer around the horn, face turning white as a sheet once he sees me approaching, but he doesn't move; his hands appear to be occupied with something behind the horn. A plan? A TRAP?! No, no, NEVER! I snap my whip in his direction again, inching ever closer in preparation for the torture I'm planning to cause.

But selfish, selfish, SELFISH BOY! He doesn't give me a CHANCE!

Because when I reach back to crack my whip one more time, he makes the mistake of taking a step back.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

My arm is killing me. Actually, scratch that – _everything _is killing me.

I was running through one of the corridors when the wall collapsed – heading for the armory, hoping to grab at least _something _I could use against Meredith. But then I got caught under the falling rocks, and now I'm stuck.

"No, come on!" Even talking hurts, but I force myself to do it – it's the only thing keeping me awake and conscious. I heard once that, if you were ever caught in a rockslide, you shouldn't move because you might make things worse. But if Meredith finds me here, I'm dead. So I figure normal rules don't really apply.

"Come on, Janaff," I say. I've been trying to use my good arm to clear a path, and I swear I can see daylight. "You've moved whole catapults, you can shift some rocks!" My tone is starting to border on hysterical, and even though I know that's bad, I can't seem to stop it. I'm stuck, trapped and she could find me, find me at any moment! "Come on!"

It'd be a lot easier to know where I was if it was light out, but with the darkness of night, I don't even notice there a hole in the rocks until my hand shoves through it. _Yes! _Desperately, and somewhat carelessly, I swing my free arm around until I find a solid rock I can grab to help drag myself out of this mess.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the rest of my body emerges into fresh air and I sigh with relief. Though it's short-lived, as, seconds later, I remember exactly where I am. And exactly who's after me.

My heart nearly stops when I realise I'm no more than twenty metres from the dragon, and I freeze instantly, hoping Meredith won't be able to see me with the rapidly falling darkness. My glasses were crushed in the collapse, and I can only make out a fuzzy figure atop the dragon's head. But something . . . something's not right. She's usually in the middle, always, that's where her harness keeps her. Now, though, she's all the way over by one of the horns.

There's a second movement, from something else this time, and my eyes widen, the shock enough to force me into a sitting position. I may not be able to make out any features, but with that white hair, there's no mistaking him. Taralo . . . how the hell did he get on the dragon?

My surprise turns to horror as I watch him take a step back, only for his foot to find nothingness. Two blurs surround him as his arms windmill desperately before slowly, gravity takes over. No. "No!" I'm not even aware that I'm shouting aloud, not even sure why I'm so opposed to it. I knew he had to die eventually, if I ever wanted to get home. But he helped me, saved my life and without him . . . without him, I'll be all alone. Against _her_.

I swear I can hear the sickening _crunch_ as his body hits the ground; hard to tell, but if that white blob is his head, it looked like it hit the ground pretty hard. _Get up, get up, _"Get up!" But either he can't hear me, or he's too dazed from the impact. Probably both.

I should run to him, should help him, _save _him. After all, he saved me. But my instincts, my survival instincts, my cowardly instincts, tell me to stay put, and instead all I can do is stare in horror as the dragon opens its mouth, the makings of a fireball building in the back of its throat.

* * *

><p><strong>Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male<strong>

Once upon a time, there was a rich man with a good and beautiful wife. They loved each other dearly, but were very sad because they had no children. The wife prayed and prayed, but still, they remained childless.

In front of their house was a juniper tree. One winter's day, the wife stood under the tree to peel some apples, and as she was peeling them, she cut her finger. Watching as a drop of blood fell on the snow, she sighed and said, "Ah, if I had but a child as red as blood and white as snow. And as she spoke, she was overcome by a feeling of comfort – a feeling that her wish had been granted. Months passed, and she fell terribly ill. "Please," she whispered to her husband one night. "If I die, bury me under the juniper tree." And she did, and he did – but not before she had a beautiful baby boy.

Her husband wept bitterly for her, but as more time passed, he overcame his sadness and married again. Eventually, he and his new wife had another child, who this new wife loved dearly – but she could not stand to look at the boy. An abomination, no child of hers. She would beat him and scold him, and one day, when the husband went out, she killed him.

The daughter had seen and cried at the loss of her brother, but her mother forced her not to tell. To hide the evidence, the mother cut the boy up and made him into a pudding for his father to eat when he returned, but the daughter took the boy's bones, wrapped them in a handkerchief and placed them beneath the juniper tree, where she wept and wept. But a happy feeling took over, and when she left, she wept no more. Then, the juniper tree began to move, and as mist and fire surrounded the trunk, a beautiful bird sprung forth. When the smoke cleared, the tree was unharmed, but the handkerchief and bones were nowhere to be found.

The bird flew away, and landed on the house of a goldsmith. It sang such a pretty song that the goldsmith gave him a golden chain. Next, he flew to a shoemaker's, and sang the same beautiful song. The shoemaker was so entranced, he gave the bird a pair of dazzling red shoes. Finally, the bird flew to a miller's, and the man was filled with such a sensation of joy at the bird's song that he gave the bird his millstone.

Then the bird flew back to the family's house and began to sing his song perched in the juniper tree. The father heard the enchanting melody, and went outside to see what beautiful creature was singing. When he came out, the bird threw the golden chain down around the man's neck. The daughter also came to see who sang the song, and to her, the bird threw down the pair of shoes. Then the wife, who was suddenly feeling ill, ran outside, for her greed was so great that she craved a gift. And the bird threw down the millstone, crushing her to death. The father and daughter heard the sound, and turned to see what had happened, but all their eyes could find was smoke and fire from the juniper tree. Then, from these flames emerged the boy, and the father and daughter, so overjoyed, took his hand and brought him into their house.

And they all lived happily ever after.

This is the story of The Juniper Tree. Only, the fairytale got a few things wrong. The boy started out a bird, one who had been cooped up in its cage for its entire life. It was not killed, but was forced into a world of horrors, one in which it had no experience. But there were others, other who made its stay more welcome. A boy to whom the bird chained himself, never wanting to leave his side. At first, the bird was worried this chain was holding the boy back. But it came to realise the boy enjoyed the chain, a chain of friendship that helped them both endure the hardships of the world. And then there was a girl, who received, not her own pair of shoes, but the bird's. And its feet, and its legs, for the bird helped her walk in her time of need.

There was also an evil woman, not the boy's stepmother, but intent on killing him all the same. Only, the boy didn't need to drop a rock on her to bring about her death; no, he just needed a small stone, a sharp one, to cut away at her lifeline. The rest would take care of itself.

Still, the fairytale wasn't completely wrong.

My brain doesn't feel quite right; my head hit the ground hard and maybe that's why, for the first time in my life, I'm not frightened – even as my blurry vision focuses on the dragon's fire. But I think . . . I think it's for a different reason. Because some parts of the fairytale were right. In the end, the boy is reborn from the fire, and reunites with the father and daughter. Or the other boy and the girl.

The fire engulfs me, and that's when I truly believe I see them. Lore and Gwen. Outstretching their hands to me, smiling and laughing just like before. They pull me to my feet, still smiling, always smiling, and together, we leave this place of pain and misery behind.

And we live happily ever after.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye, District 8 Male<strong>

The cannon shakes me to my very core, but even then, the dragon's fire doesn't cease – not until there's nothing left of the boy from District 6. This is it. I'm all alone. With _her_.

And I'm standing in the middle of the castle debris, sticking out like a sore thumb.

My ankle, painful enough with Meredith's cuts, must have been at the very least twisted by the rocks, because the moment I try to stumble backwards, my leg buckles and I can't stop the cry that springs from my lips. My hands clamp over my mouth a second too late.

"Janaff." The word cuts through the air like a knife, somehow making it all the way down to my ears. I'm trembling all over now, can't even manage to get my arms to push myself back. She's looking at me; they're _both _looking at me, I can tell, I can feel it and oh god, oh god, I'm not ready for this. "I killed your trap. Your distraction. He was your plan, but I killed him." The words are carefully controlled, which scares me almost more than the shouting. And it does absolutely nothing to prepare me for the next outburst. "_I. KILLED. HIM!_" The words hit me like a wall, and it takes all of my willpower to stop myself from curling up into a ball and sobbing. As it is, I can feel the tears forming, clouding my already blurry vision. "Burned to a crisp! Like you wanted to do with me, Janaff. You want to burn me again? NO! NEVER! NEVER, NEVER, NEVER! You'll burn first! And DIE!"

Silence follows this, and I can practically imagine Meredith trying to calm herself down, while I struggle to stay collected. It's a losing battle for me though; my chest is heaving, each breath painful, failing to fill my lungs, accompanied with what sounds almost like a whimper.

"But first," Meredith adds, and I can just make out her hand as it raises her whip. "You're going to scream."

And the _crack!_ echoes through the arena, sounding not unlike a gunshot. Oh, what does it matter which it is? What comes after is the same in both cases.

Death.

I want to close my eyes, want to turn away and scream. Fear is illogical, irrational – but it's also powerful, inevitable and it takes control of everything. It's fear that holds me paralysed, forcing me to watch as my death comes ever closer.

But then, something happens.

Meredith _falls_.

Her dragon twitched his head, growling when she whipped it, and the motion sent her tumbling to the left. But she doesn't stop tumbling. And she careens over the edge, grabbing at the one rope still attaching her waist to the horn.

It's . . . it's been cut.

And she's still falling.

She screams in rage as her plummet continues while I feel like I'm flying, soaring high above the cloud of fear to reach the rays of happiness. It doesn't matter that she tucks herself into a ball, doesn't matter that she rolls and recovers from her fall unlike Taralo. Because the dragon has seen. The dragon has noticed its master is gone.

And the dragon is _mad_.

This time, I manage to shield my eyes as the dragon's fire burns white-hot, lighting up the whole area with its brilliance. Sheer, sheer brilliance! Then the heat disappears, the light dies and the beast gives one final, triumphant roar before it takes off, heading back off towards the mountains.

S-she's . . . she's gone. Haha, she's gone! Oh my god, oh my god, she's . . . she's dead!

I won.

I-I won.

I _won_.

Without thinking, my arms shove me into a standing position, the pain in my leg suddenly easy to ignore. Because it's over. It's over! I can't . . . I can't believe it. I turn around, expecting the hovercraft to appear behind me. That's what happens, right? My brain is so full of relief, I can't think straight. No, yes, of course that's what happens. The hovercraft comes and picks me up, and I go home. _Home_. To my grandparents. Grandmother and Grandfather – I get to _see_ them again! Oh god, I can't believe it! Can't believe I . . . I . . .

No.

No, no, no, no, please, no.

There's no cannon. No cannon. No cannon, no cannon, oh god, no cannon.

That means . . . t-that means . . .

_CRACK!_

"YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD KILL ME?!" It's as though a line of fire has suddenly been traced onto my back, but that's nothing compared to the internal pain I'm feeling. She's here, she's here, this is still going on, NO! Please, I was done, it was over! "YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD BURN ME AGAIN?! I'LL. _NEVER_. BURN! NEVER! NEVER AGAIN! AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

_Crack!_ And the whip hits again, carving into the first wound she made and making me stagger. My senses are overloaded with horror, I can't process anything and yet somehow, somehow I manage to turn, just in time to get another lash across the chest before her hand wraps around my knee, yanking it forward and pulling me down to her level.

"YOU DIE! _YOU_! YOU'RE THE LOSER, YOU!" She's on top of me now – no, no! – and her nails are digging into the whip mark across my chest, tearing it deeper and deeper and making me scream. "You think I can't avoid a little dragon fire? You think I can't roll away and hide? LIKE YOU?! I trained for this, I _TRAINED_! YOU'RE NO ONE, NOBODY! AND YOU _DARE._ _BURN_. _ME_?"

Her nails leave my chest, now a mess of torn flesh and drag down my arms, creating white and red lines, but nothing else. They're not quite sharp enough to pierce my unhurt skin like she wants, and she realises this. My eyes are closed, my lips clenched tightly together, but still the tears are escaping, still the sobs are evident. Especially as she clenches my chin tightly with one hand, wrapping the other in a handful of my hair. "Look at me."

The whimpers are only building in the back of my throat, but I refuse to open my eyes, trying instead to conjure up images of home, of my grandparents; s-she can't . . . I can't let my last sight be _her_. "LOOK AT ME!"

She yanks my head up before slamming it back to the ground and a muffled cry escapes my lips, quietened only by the fact that she's still holding my chin, preventing my mouth from opening fully. "I _said_," the snarl is right in my ear before she pulls her head back, and now my head is being lifted once more and no, no, _please_, ple-, "LOOK. AT. ME!"

The second hit is more painful than the first, but this time all I can manage is a low moan. And slowly, my eyes open, because I can't stand the pain, no more, please, I was _so close_. But I'll never make it home. That fact is written all over her face, twisted into a mask of pure rage – no, more than that. It's the look of someone who has completely and utterly lost their mind.

I flinch as she brings her head closer, until we are literally nose to nose. "Show me the fear," she hisses, ice blue eyes burning holes into my skull. "I want to see it, want to see every bit of it. Because you're the loser. And you deserve it. AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"

And then she plunges her teeth straight into my shoulder.

"AHHH!" It's pain, pain like nothing I've ever experienced before and she rips and shreds until she's literally gnawing on bone. But somehow, the agony clears a small part of my brain, a part that isn't screaming, _no, no, NO!_ along with all the rest. No, this one is saying, _GET OUT OF THERE!_

Her stumps are on either side of me, but they offer little help with balance, and she's neglected to hold down my other arm. So as she raises her head, spitting blood and pieces of flesh in my face, I twist my hips and shove her off of me.

Her shriek mingles with my cry as we both desperately try to right ourselves. She's up first though, and her nails – no, _claws_ – wrap around my leg, digging deep into the old cuts she made right as I manage to stand. Then her teeth are in my calf, tearing my flesh and we're both screaming as I grab her hair to yank her off before running, running, as fast as my injured leg can go.

Which isn't fast at all, and though she's slower on her stumps, her whip still catches me around the ankle and I go down hard. Just like that day by the trap. Only no, no, it's not because than I had a bomb! Then I had a plan! And Perrin. And Code and Rhine and oh god, I'm not ready yet! I thought I prepared for everything, thought of each and every little detail, but how do you prepare for death? You can't, _you can't_ and I'm . . . I'm . . .

"Scared?" Meredith's whip releases my ankle and snaps across my back before I have to react. "Well, Janaff?" My arms struggle to push me up, but my chest is burning from falling on the open wounds, and I can barely stay even stay conscious. Still, I have to try, but each time I attempt to rise she cracks her whip, and I collapse once more, another lash mark stinging across my back. "Are you scared?" I can hear her coming closer, hear the dragging sound the her shirt's sleeves, which she must have cut off and tied around her legs, make as they pad across the ground. But my whole back is on fire and I just can't- can't-

"ANSWER ME!" Her words are punctuated with a crushing blow to my ankle and I cry out, trying to pull away, put her hand is around my calf, yanking me back. "ANSWER!"

Whatever she holds is pounded repeatedly into my ankle until with an almighty _snap!_ the bone breaks. And then, _then _the screams really come.

"Yes, YES! How does it feel? How does it feel to _lose, _Janaff? Oh, and you haven't even burned yet!" I'm gasping for breath now, each pant carrying with it a heavy sob as my fingers scramble for purchase in the castle wreckage. As though I still have any hope of getting away.

There's a hand digging under my stomach, and I'm flipped over almost effortlessly, the fresh wounds on my back hitting the uneven rock behind me and eliciting another wince from my lips. But that's not enough for her.

She holds a rock in one hand as her stumps slide back onto my stomach – it's bears a thick coating of blood, _my_ blood. What she used to break my ankle. Her other hand grabs for my arm, and I try meekly to resist, only to be completely stunned as the rock slams into my jaw. The world erupts into a sea of black spots, and by the time my eyes refocus, both of my wrists are being firmly held above my head, encircled by one of Meredith's hands.

"I don't know exactly how I'll get you to burn," she continues, lowering the rock and slowly grinding it into my already bloody shoulder. "Darrel deserted me. BECAUSE OF YOU!" This time, the stone smashes into my cheek, and I let out a shuddered moan, my vision going black once more. It takes longer for me to recover this time, and I only manage to catch the tail end of Meredith's words. ". . . flammable? Yes, yes they are!" Before I know it, she's sliding off of me, and her whip is cracking down on my exposed stomach once more. "Come on, up! UP! We're going to the trees! Because trees burn! Like _you_."

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

"I said, UP!"

_Crack!_

Part of me knows this is degrading, knows that I should be standing up to her, defying every order and being brave in the face of death. But I'm not facing death; I'm facing pain, pain and torture, to last as long as I still draw breath. No, _no_ . . .

_Crack!_

"UP, UP, UP!"

The tears are flowing freely now as I get on all fours, preparing for the pains of standing. I'm halfway there, biting my lip so hard I draw blood, when Meredith shoves me down again. "_NO_." She smiles, her eyes level with mine. "You walk like this. Like _me_. So you see how it feels."

And with another snap, she forces me forward, as though I'm nothing more than a dog. I can't even register the humiliation though – the pain, the _pain_. My face contorts in agony as another spasm runs up from my broken ankle; dragging it along the ground twists it, the bones grating together and why can't this stop, why can't this _stop_?

In the dark, and with my glasses gone, it's impossible to see. My hands are out in front, feeling my way as Meredith cackles and whips me from behind, until I freeze. That wasn't . . . that wasn't a rock I just touched.

"What's the hold up? Keep moving, KEEP MOVING! We have a schedule, a burning appointment to make!" Another lash, then another before I hear her moving around me, coming to deal a more severe punishment. "I said, KEEP-"

I thought all strength had left me, but I somehow find the power to yank the sword out of the debris and shove it through her stomach.

I should have known that when the castle collapsed, the armory weapons would have spilled everywhere. But I was too stupid to look for one. Still, I have it now, and that's all that matters as I twist the blade violently before extracting it for another hit. "No!" Meredith screams, trying to claw at my face, but I'm already swinging the sword; this time, it lodges deep in her arm, warm blood spraying both of us as I tear it away once more. "That's not . . . that's not FAIR!"

The blade stabs deep in her chest and her words turn to incoherent splutters as she falls. I don't even bother rising to my feet, merely kneeling over her to strike again. "No," she says again, but it's more of a whisper, and even in the darkness I can see those blue eyes fading, those blue eyes that haunted me, that terrified me. "You c-can't . . ." She coughs up blood as I stab again, not caring where at this point, just wanting her dead, dead, d_ead_. "I was . . . supposed to be the . . . the . . . the . . ."

"_Loser . . ._" is the last word she speaks, though it's more of an exhalation rather than two audible syllables. Maybe I imagined them. Maybe I'm imagining this. Oh god, what if I'm dead already?

I don't hear the cannon, so busy plunging the blade in and out, in and out, make sure she's dead, _make sure she's dead_! Too many times, too many times I've let her fool me. There's nothing but ringing in my ears, ringing and her mad cackle and I can still hear it, _it's in my head_. So she can't be dead, not yet, not yet. One more stab, one more, another to make sure, just in case-

There's a burst of static, and a loud voice suddenly booms through the arena, but still I stab down, stab her – is it her? I can't tell, there's too much blood and what if it's not, what if she's gotten away again, what if she's behind me?!

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present your victor for the 37th annual Hunger Games: Janaff Skye!"

No, no, not yet. That's what I thought before, that's what I guessed, but I was wrong, _wrong _and my mistake let her whip me, claw me, bite me, _break me_. Not again, she's not dead yet, she's faking, can't you see? But they can't, they can't because a ladder is descending in front of me – no, no! She'll escape! She'll leave, she'll kill everyone, she'll win! You can't let her . . . you can't let her . . .

Seeing as I'm not going up on my own, people begin descending the ladder, dressed all in white with masks over their mouths. No, no! D-don't. "Stay back," I whisper, still bringing the sword up and down. "She'll kill you . . ."

One of the approaches and gently takes the blade from my grasp as another holds my arm, sliding a thin, silver needle through my skin. And they're hands are all around me, and a voice, trying to be reassuring. "It's all right, Mr Skye, it's all right," but no, it's not, these people are defenceless against . . . against . . .

The bloody mess in front of me. That's it; that's all that's there. No features that are even noticeable recognisable.

"She escaped," I try to tell them, shout at them to make them listen, but my tongue feels thick, my eyelids suddenly weighing more than the catapults I pushed earlier today. "Watch out . . . she's going to kill . . . kill . . . k- . . ."

I can't even finish the thought in my head before their chemicals kick in, and the darkness envelops me. Eyes close, muscles relax – and I pass out in their arms.


	51. Happily Never After

_**Eheh, remember when I said I wouldn't post another chapter over 20 000 words?**_

_**I lied :)**_

_**And, get this, this chapter was supposed to have like, 10 more POVs in it. So I lied about another thing. There will be FOUR post-Games chapters, including this one. Sorry to everyone who wants the sequel to come quicker! But, for those of you who want this story to last longer, hurray! :)**_

_**Honestly though, I am sorry guys, I have no idea how this got so long. I'm also worried it might be a bit slow and boring, the more interesting stuff was in the later POVs, which I decided I wouldn't add to this chapter because it was so long already. Sorry about that too :) Hope you like it anyways though, as you get your first glimpse of Janaff as a victor!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye<strong>

_My bare feet are cool as they stand on the plate beneath – smooth and metal, and rising up, up through the tower to deposit me at the top._

_It's the one tall structure amidst a bountiful forest, and I can see every corner of the sea of green that surrounds me. No, not- not green . . . orange? Orange and red. Is it autumn?_

_No – no, it's _fire_, fire causing each leaf to curl in on itself before it blackens and dies. Fire jumping from trunk to trunk, fire spreading, fire all around me!_

_And then, piercing the smoky air comes the most bone-chilling roar I've ever heard._

"_No!" The word is more of a sob as I scramble back, but too late, too late! The dragon is bursting forth from the clouds, bellowing once more before it swoops down and encircles the tower edge, leaving me with nowhere to go, nowhere to _run_. F-from her._

_My hands still fly to the dragon's scales, fingers scratching weakly at them as though there's some hope of escaping. But there's not, there's not because she's . . . she's . . ._

"_Hello, Janaff."_

_Behind me. Behind me, oh god, she's behind me, no!_

_It's like someone else takes over my body at that moment; if I was in control, I would never turn, never force myself to watch as _she_ comes towards me, bringing threats and promises of unbearable pain. But somehow, I'm still twisting around, until my eyes catch sight of _her_, walking towards me and brandishing that whip – no, no!_

"_Like them?" she asks, gesturing to her legs as I stare at them in horror. She can walk, she can walk, she can walk – there's no way to run now, no way to hide and please, _please_! Don't make me endure this again. "You should," she continues, grinning from ear to ear with teeth already dripping blood – my blood. "After all, I took them from you."_

_It's true, oh god, it's true! I look to my legs, but there's nothing left, nothing but burnt stumps and the charred smell of flesh – and suddenly everything is burning, _I'm_ burning and screaming while she cackles and it hurts, it _hurts, _no, no, _"NO!"

I bolt upright, but am stopped before I can even lift my head a few inches from the pillow. The bed I'm in is more comfortable than anything I've felt in weeks, blanket a crisp white that matches my pale skin tone almost exactly. But there's also something cool stretching against my waist, and I lift the covers to find a large restraining band across my hips, preventing me from moving, preventing me from escaping _her_.

"No, no!" Don't they understand? She's coming for me, she wants revenge, I-I have to get away! An alarm starts blaring as I struggle more, and a panel in the wall slides smoothly open, allowing a crowd of people in white uniforms inside. The same ones who came down the hovercraft. Then they saw, they _saw_! They saw her in the arena, they know what she can do, somebody help me! But they're not – they're holding me down, speaking rapidly to one another in words I just can't bring myself to comprehend and a cool feeling begins to seep into my veins, just as I realise there are tubes leading into my arm. And one is filling with . . . filling with . . .

_I'm in one of the castle's luxurious bedrooms, stretched out across the enormous bed, but I can't sleep; there's hissing, hissing everywhere –where is it coming from?_

_Four snakes slither out of the gloom, with eerie grins and icy blue eyes trained directly on me and I want to scream, want to run, but it's like I'm frozen. Frozen in fear, powerless to do anything as they glide closer, closer, closer, no! Two head for my legs, the other two, my arms and soon they're wrapping around my wrists and ankles, splaying my limbs out, keeping them tied down. Like flipping on a switch, I find my voice suddenly able to work; _now _the screams come, loud and terrified in my ears until movement stirs beside my head. No, no, there's one there too, and it's slowly sliding across my face, rough scales pressing firmly against my mouth to silence my cries. _

_But it doesn't stop there – the snake continues its journey around my head, coiling and looping until my eyes are covered too, plunging me into darkness. Nothing, nothing, there's nothing to be seen and too late, I finally regain control of my limbs. But struggling and thrashing about only results in the tightening of the snakes against my wrists, to the point where my joints feel as if they'll pop from the pressure. I collapse back in the bed, helpless, defenceless, vulnerable to any and all attacks. No . . . no . . ._

_A low moan escapes my gag as something long and wet slides around my ear – the snake's tongue, oh god, and now it's hissing, hissing _words_. "Look at me, Janaff."_

_I cringe away, or try to, but the snake is around my head and there's nothing I can do to escape it. "Look at me." _Do it!_ my mind screams because I know, _I know _what happens if I disobey. P-pain. But I can't look, the serpent is blocking my eyes, can't it see that?_

"_Look."_

_I can't, I can't! Please, please, I can't!_

"_At."_

_No. No, no, no, no, no, no!_

_I can't endure any more pain._

"_ME!"_

_And the snake sinks its fangs straight into my shoulder._

No shout accompanies my waking this time, no terrified outburst or plea, but I do bolt upright with my chest heaving from hysterical gasps. Or rather, I bolt a few inches up from the mattress; the restraining band is still present. _Don't let that bother you, don't let that bother you . . ._

This time, my mind doesn't jump straight to panic – perhaps due to . . . _her_ absence in my nightmare – and I'm to think a bit more clearly. Of course, I still have the overwhelming urge to struggle out of the restraint – it reminds me too much of the snakes, their dry skin, their constricted grip on my wrists, my ankles, my mouth, _oh god_-

_Stop!_ A small part of me, a very small part, has regained some sanity, enough to know that what happened was just a nightmare. _Just a nightmare_. I-I'm all right – I have to be. The announcement happened, the hovercraft appeared, I _won_. It's safe now; s-she can't hurt me.

And if I freak out again, the doctors might return, knocking me out once more. That means sleep, and sleep means nightmares. And nightmares mean _her_. I can't- can't allow that to happen; can't ever let myself fall asleep again. Or I might see her, mad and cackling, cracking her whip against my already mangled flesh, all while I try and try to scream, but can't, because there are snakes gagging my mouth and binding my limbs and they're not snakes, not snakes, but miniature dragons come to kill me, burning wherever they touch my restrained form and now everything's on fire, fire, FIRE, NO!

Alarms blare in my ears along with the beeping of many machines, both discordant noises melding into raucous melody. But I barely hear it, barely hear the doctors as they rush in once more, shouts of "panic attack" and "hold him down" completely lost on me. Because all I hear is the fire, all I feel is the pain and all I see . . . all I see . . .

Is _her._

The chemicals knock me out before I can form another coherent thought.

_I'm standing with my back to the hole, the trap, where my plan had failed. Only Code stands in front of me, eyes accusing, shouts of "Murderer!" and "Monster!" exploding from my lips. Then he's shoving me backwards, down into the hole, and it's deep, much deeper than I ever remembered – so deep that there's no possible way I could manage to haul myself out. Which I try desperately to do, as not one, but thousands upon thousands of bombs are thrown down, hitting me, drowning me. My fingers scramble madly at the dirt walls of my prison in one last-ditch effort to save myself._

_The bombs explode and everything burns._

Over and over again, like some sort of torturous routine: I wake from a horrible nightmare, try to calm myself, pray that the logical part of my mind will once more resume control. But the panic is unfailing. And irresistible. As soon as a seed of fear enters my mind, I cannot remove it – no, it just grows, planting roots, spreading branches of terror from which the leaves of logic fall, until there's nothing left but a quivering mess of pure fear. Then the alarms come, and the beeping and the doctors. And the . . . the . . .

_Her whip is cracking across my back – she's calling me Darrel, telling me to burn innocents, to murder them all. But I can't! I'm not her dragon. Nor am I her mindless, obedient pet. Yet that whip snaps, the pain comes and suddenly I'm begging to do whatever she says._

Please, don't they understand? The drugs aren't making things better, they're making it _worse_. The nightmares grow more and more terrifying as they pass – just let me stay awake, I'll be fine! Well, _fine_ is a strong word. But I'll be better. Please, this is just creating a cycle of fear and misery, one from which I'll never be able to break away.

_I'm back amongst the castle debris, gashes carving open on my knees as I walk on them, forced onward by the sting of her whip. But we pass through the rocks and there's no sword, no sword for me to take, no sword for me to kill her with. Instead we make it all the way to the forest, where I'm tied to a stake and placed in the middle of an enormous bonfire. She cackles as she watches me burn._

I can't take it; I just can't take it.

_I stab the District 10 boy in the back, but as he falls he morphs into my father, glaring at me with so much hatred, it makes me physically sick. "What is wrong with you?" he screams. "How could you? You monster!"_

Please – someone stop this.

_I plunge my blade over and over into her butchered corpse, but too late I realise that I'm not stabbing her at all; the sword is going through my stomach and she stands and laughs as I slowly bleed to death, whip cracking all the while._

Please.

* * *

><p><strong>Isaac Lume<strong>

"Streamers, streamers . . . what colours do you think?"

No response.

"Isaac?"

Don't respond, don't respond. _Ignore_ him.

"_Isaac_."

A delicate, manicured hand shoots out, two fingers almost daintily flicking the empty paper coffee cup away from my own fidgeting digits. I don't bother watching it fly, but I do hear it hit the floor as I turn to glare at O'Cleon. "_What_?"

The escort gives a little _huff_, retracting his fingers and brushing them clean on one of the dozen hankies he carries with him. "You're _rude_ when you're tired." Tired – like he's implying I slept late last night, and not that I've been up for three solid days waiting in this hospital hallway. "Then again," he muses, tilting his head and making his purple curls bounce. "You're always rude. Rud_er_ when you're tired, I suppose."

He notices me still glaring at him and quickly gets back on track. "Right. Streamers: colour ideas?"

"I don't care."

His reaction makes it seem as though my answer is equivalent to committing some sort of horrendous crime. "No, no, _no!_" he practically squeaks, tone shrill enough to send spikes of pain shooting through my head. "You cannot answer that to everything! Maybe you haven't figured this out yet, since you're so _new_ to the job, but it's up to the mentors and escort to plan the Victory Banquet! I am the escort, you are the mentor and I will not let you offload all the work on me!"

There's something strange about hearing those words leave a Capitol citizen's mouth, one who I doubt has ever had to "work" in his life. Oh, it must be _so_ taxing, lifting those slips of paper from the reaping bowl. And actually having to read them? The poor man! That's much easier than scrubbing floors or mending furniture, bandaging wounds or calming crying children . . .

O'Cleon, however, misses the lack of sympathy on my face as he shoves his colour catalogue under my nose. "_Now_. What colour streamers?"

I have a huge desire to ignore him, but after knowing O'Cleon for two years – and being forced to spend more time in his company than I care to – I know he's nothing if not persistent. And the headache I began to develop last night is only growing, brain pounding away inside my skull; I'm in no mood to suffer more arguments with his grating, high-pitched Capitol accent. So, jabbing my finger at two random colours on his sheet, I grumble, "Those ones."

O'Cleon takes one look at the page and his jaw drops. "Cerise and persimmon _together_?!" His free hand goes to his forehead as he lets out a despairing moan. "Oh, why did I have to get stuck with _you_ as a victor? You, the only person from the fashion district with _no_taste?"

"Textiles district, _textiles district_." I hate, _hate_ it when O'Cleon, or anyone else – i.e. every Capitol citizen around– refer to us as "the fashion district". Not only does it make 8 sound stupid, but it leads all the other districts to believe our lives are nothing but modelling, makeup and beautiful clothes. Which couldn't be farther from the truth.

"Anyone could do better!" O'Cleon seems to have decided to ignore me, and is continuing with his lament on my terrible eye from design. "Oh, why couldn't your district partner have won? She had _style_!"

Danya Falair was eighteen, well-off and one of few District 8 citizens to actually have a career in modelling. She entranced sponsors with her beauty as soon as her name was called, and later proceeded to amaze them once more with her charm. There were no end to her admirers back home, and the number only grew when she reached the Capitol. Next to her, I'd felt awkward, insignificant, pathetic. She'd had it all.

And then lost it all in the bloodbath.

I can still see the Career boy's smirking face as he stabs her in the heart, even though O'Cleon's voice is highly distracting. "No, no, I think we'll definitely go with lavender and cerulean. Now, flower choice?"

Maybe it's the lack of sleep or the memory of my Games – or maybe it's just the task of organising a party for people I hate with one person I _really_ despise. But whatever the reason, my tone could not be harsher as I snap, "There is a kid in there slowly trying to be put back together from the mangled scraps your stupid Hunger Games left in place of his mind and body. And you want to talk about _flowers_? When will you get this through your thick, brainless head? _I don't freaking care about the decorations!_"

Does my face look funny when I'm angry? Is my tone all high-pitched and weird? Am I spewing nonsense? No – then why the _heck_ does no one take my arguments seriously? The other victors were bad enough, but now O'Cleon is raising one big, fluffy eyebrow, looking at me as though I'm a child having a temper tantrum. Obviously, it does nothing to improve my mood, and I send him one last, vicious glare before returning my gaze to the window. Appearing as just a part of the wall on the other side, for me, it allows a clear view into the room beyond – where Janaff Skye is tossing and turning in another restless, nightmare-filled sleep.

I _told_ them, told every doctor who would stop to listen and even a few who tried to ignore me: stop. They're doing more harm than good with their so-called "miracle drugs" because _they don't get it_. It's not the physical pain that gets to you after the Games; people tend to develop a high tolerance for bumps and bruises after spending time in the arena. No, it's the _memories _that affect you – memories and guilt. Although I doubt Janaff is currently worrying himself over the latter; considering all that happened to him, the former would be far, far worse. I may not have lived to see too many Games, but having gone through my own, I can still say those that just passed were by far the most terrifying I'd ever seen in my entire life.

Which makes me want to sympathise with Janaff – not only did he endure all that, but he's also my tribute. I just . . . I don't know how to feel. This was my first year mentoring, and as much as that District 1 mentor liked to remind me, I didn't automatically assume I knew more than every other victor. They'd done it for a lot longer; I had no experience and, on top of that, I wasn't the most outgoing person around. Add two tributes from homes, actual, genuine _homes_, and, well, I'd probably ranked pretty high up there in terms of worst mentor possible.

"_So . . ." He looks at me, eyes hard to read behind the thick lenses of his glasses. But do I detect a trace of skepticism? For some reason, it hits a nerve, even though I know it's not exactly out of place – I'm supposed to be his mentor and yet, I'm a year younger than he is. Not to mention the fact that I haven't had much to offer in terms of useful information. "You're supposed to give me tips on interview angles?"_

_A nod is all I give him._

"_Any ideas on how I should play it?"_

_I shrug, then realise I should probably at least try to give him a bit more than that. No matter how much I mistrust this guy, the thought of his death on my conscience is still enough to make my heart twitch. "Look, I can't act. Back at my interviews, I just went with whatever I honestly thought was a true response."_

"_You didn't receive any sponsor gifts during your time in the arena, right?"_

_His tone implied the statement was intended as an observation, but I take it as an insult all the same. Arms folding tighter across my chest, I slump further down in my chair and manage to spit one syllable out through gritted teeth. "No."_

_My obvious hostility doesn't seem to deter him – though he definitely picks up on the change. Brow furrowing slightly, he pauses for a moment before seemingly landing on the decision to ignore it. Instead, he pushes his glasses up and continues, almost to himself, "I mean, I should definitely mention my alliance with the Careers. It'll make me seem powerful, strong, less . . ." He glances down at his own scrawny form before meeting my gaze once more, perhaps expecting me to respond or even show appreciation for the attempt at a self-deprecating comment. I do neither. "But if that gives me the intimidating card, should I have something to balance it out? A sympathetic story, for the sponsors who aren't easily swayed by my alliance?" Silence falls as he looks down at his shoes, hesitating before finishing with, "Maybe I should mention my parents."_

_Oh _yes_; mention the tragic story of Mr and Mrs Skye's deaths. Make the audience feel truly _sorry _for you. While omitting the fact that you live a comfortable life with your grandparents, where you have enough money to run a business nobody ever uses, not to mention the fact that you've never had to take tessera in your life. Oh, and while you're at it, make sure to ignore the details like you're schooling, the glasses you can actually afford to fix your eyesight and even smaller things like, say, getting to sleep in an actual _bed_ every night. You'll also want to keep secrets like how your grandparents actually love you, how they go out of their way to show this, by talking with you, presenting you with small gifts, giving you hugs whenever they felt you needed one, or even for absolutely no reason at all . . ._

To say I disliked my male tribute at that point would have been a huge understatement. I'd already mistrusted him before – anyone who joined with the Careers was automatically in my bad books – but our little conversation the day before the interviews had _really _struck a nerve.

Actually, both tributes had bothered me, right from the moment they stepped on the train. Everything about them _screamed_ spoiled, from eating calmly and politely like they'd never starved before to actually using their utensils, without being told or instructed how. Hearing their stories had just made it worse, though. Janaff and his parents' deaths, living happily with his grandparents. Precious and her abusive father, never mind the fact that her life had only become awful _after_ her mother had left – she'd had nine years of an almost perfect life up until that point.

Perhaps I have a slightly different idea of what living a "spoiled" life means. But hey, I'm not the only one; most of the kids where I come from have the same opinion. We don't pity ourselves, not by a long shot – which is exactly why I couldn't stand the feeling in other people. However awful or tragic Precious and Janaff's lives sounded, I was positive they were just sheltered, stuck-up kids who'd had the arrogance to feel sorry for their incredibly comfortable lifestyles simply because a few things had gone wrong.

But in the arena, everything changed. I could uphold my dislike of them both for the first day, since neither was injured and both seemed completely at ease with the thought of killing. That second night, though, was the turning point. I hadn't wanted to send Precious that sword, had been disgusted enough as it was that she'd so willingly jumped to stalking tributes for a kill. But for the first few days of the Games, I'd been forced to take advice from O'Cleon, who, in addition to being District 8's escort for the past twenty-three years, had also served as the appointed mentor, back when we had no victor. Apparently I was "young, inexperienced, and could learn much from him". Stupid president and his stupid laws. O'Cleon and I had fought for the entire afternoon over his sponsor gift idea, but in the end, he'd gone to the Head Gamemaker and she'd overruled me. At that moment, it was hard to tell whether I hated Lillibeth or the escort more.

I did discover, however, that I hadn't hated my tributes nearly as much as I'd hoped. Watching Precious fall from that cliff, the camera zooming in close on her face and somehow, over the roaring rush of wind, managing to catch the quiet whisper of "_Molly"_ before she closed her eyes and smashed into the rocks below. It's sickening enough seeing the splattered remains of a body that's hit the ground at incredible speeds, but knowing that it was someone you'd spoken to not three days before, knowing that you'd given them the bare minimum in survival information and, as a result, essentially brought about their death, made it a thousand times worse. My strategy in the arena had been run, hide and attempt to avoid fights at all costs; it had worked well, and if I had just _mentioned _it, told Precious and Janaff how effective it could be, she might not have gone off after the pair from 12. She could have lived.

Later on, when I'd finally decided to take a break from the Control Centre and head back to my floor, the nightmares had come. Of course, they were always present, but a few months after my Games they had finally died down from every night to the odd, particularly bad day – even then, they were often vague, mildly scary and, in the end, forgettable.

Not so with my dreams of Precious.

In fact, if anything, her nightmares had been more vivid and more distressing than most. Yes, I had killed in my Games and yes, the emotional trauma of the events had been awful. But in the back of my mind, I'd somehow managed to make my decisions sound reasonable. _You don't want to die. And if they have to so you can live, doesn't that justify it, just a bit?_

It didn't much, but it was enough to keep me sane when I finally got out of the arena. The same reasoning, however, could be used in no way for the situation with Precious. She hadn't had to die; I'd just been too prejudiced and hostile to help her survive.

The image of her broken body seemed permanently etched into my mind; I can see it even now when I close my eyes, and the sight still pierces my heart with guilt. Even after I brought back Janaff.

Though I really had nothing to do with it, and no sense of pride or triumph filled me as I heard the announcement, or watched the doctors cart the boy's unconscious form up the hovercraft. I'd achieved what no mentor had ever done in thirty-seven years of Hunger Games – I had yet to have a year where both of my tributes died. My score for bringing home victors is currently at 100%.

And yet, Precious still didn't make it. That doesn't really feel perfect, does it?

I sigh as I continue to stare at Janaff's twitching form. I screwed up before the Games – I know that. The right thing to do now is make it up to him, be supportive, sympathetic, _nice._ He'll need it, especially with all that he'll be going through.

But . . . I can't _do_ nice. I used to try, back at the community home; however, the realisation soon came to me that nice people were those who went days without food because it was constantly stolen from them. Who were forced to take extra tessera since, when the orphanage owner asked and no one volunteered, they put their hand up because it was "the right thing". Who were always blamed for the messes of others because they weren't the type to rat the person responsible out. So nice was kicked out of my system pretty quickly, replaced by a sullen mistrust towards pretty much anyone.

Until Lura. Just the thought of her sends a rush of heat through my heart and cheeks, a smile almost gracing my lips for the first time in a while. She's so different, so unlike anyone I've ever met before. The sincere kindness, the offer of help without ever expecting anything in return, the . . . hug. I can't believe she could get out of the arena alive and still manage to be as sweet and nice and, well, how she is now.

_She'd _know what to do – of course she would. She'd be able to walk right into that hospital room, say a few words to Janaff and all feelings of misery would disappear in an instant. I can imagine it perfectly in my head; I just can't imagine myself pulling the same thing off.

However, my half-formed ideas on whatever words might possibly help Janaff vanish completely from my mind as movement within my field of vision distracts me completely. Not the movement I was hoping for, however – no, instead of Janaff waking, I find myself staring at a rather large Blueberry Explosion fruit bar dangling in front of my eyes.

O'Cleon shakes the food in front of my face one more time, the wrapper crinkling with every movement. I stare at if another second before my perplexed gaze turns to him. "What?"

"I'd just remembered," he says, still jiggling the fruit bar up and down. "Your rudeness usually stems from fatigue _and_ hunger. We don't have time for you to sleep, and I've already made my views clear on caffeine . . ." O'Cleon is what some in the Capitol would call a "health nut". I personally think the same – omitting the "health" bit, of course. "But I happened to have an extra fruit bar with me."

I'd be incredibly irritated with him, had my disbelief not overpowered every other emotion. "So you're trying to feed me in an attempt to help with the _party planning_?"

"Yes. _Duh_."

All right; that last bit really helped my irritation shine through. My annoyed glare returns and I slouch back in my seat, determinedly looking away from the ridiculous escort sitting next to me.

However, my gaze keeps unconsciously trying to look back up at the fruit bar. Janaff had exited the arena three days ago, and I hadn't slept _or _ate since then. No food was present in the hospital; after discovering that Janaff's panic attacks meant he couldn't properly feed himself, the doctors had simply hooked him up to more machines so that he could get the nutrients he needed. I'd been too proud to ask if they'd had any hospital food they could spare for me. The best I could do was the coffee machine in the nearby lounge area – I'd lost track of the number I'd had just to stay awake. O'Cleon, however, had made frequent trips back up to our floor for a shower, hot meal and a good night's sleep, something he constantly (and irritatingly) reminded me to do. But I couldn't – what if something happened while I was gone?

The fruit bar twitches once more and I curse myself for the feeling of longing that spreads through me. Back at the community centre, days without food was only to be expected – there was never enough to go around and always ten more mouths to feed even if we thought there finally was. Since winning the Games though, living in Victor's Village and always having enough to eat, I've gotten _soft_. And I hate it. But I still can't stop myself as a particularly loud growl erupts from my stomach.

My jaw clenches at the sound, tensing even more as O'Cleon raises an eyebrow. He heard it – and now, even if I restrain myself from taking the food, I've still admitted I'm hungry. That unconsciously, I want his help. _No!_ God I hate relying on people, especially these frilly, idiotic, good-for-nothing Capitol citizens. Yet somehow, I can't stop my arm from stretching out just as I grumble a defeated, "Fine."

The fruit bar, however, is yanked away from my hand before I can even touch it. Irritation seeping through me, I turn to glare at O'Cleon, only to find him wagging his finger at me in what can only be described as the most demeaning fashion imaginable. Obviously this does nothing to improve my mood. "_What_?"

"You didn't think I was just going to give this away, did you? Tut, tut." My urge to bite O'Cleon's finger off is growing with each passing shake, and the condescending tone isn't exactly helping. "No, simple child, this is your _reward_."

I hate myself for being hungry, a feeling the presence of food has made so powerful that I can't seem to let the conversation drop. "For what?"

There's no verbal answer; instead, I receive a flower catalogue under my nose. "Doing your job."

I open my mouth to argue, but a shake of the fruit bar silences me. God, what does he think I am, his _dog_? I hate this, hate _him _and yet I'm still going along with this – why am I still going along with this?

Because I'm exhausted. And starving. My bones feel as though they've disintegrated, leaving with me with limbs of lead heavy and useless, while what started as a hollow ache in my stomach has escalated to full-blown cries of discomfort. I started out chiding myself for being weak, knowing I'd been through worse. But the thing is, I'd also promised myself that I'd never go through that again. The community home was bad enough – the arena was a whole different story, where food was practically nonexistent, and I swore there were a few days where it felt like my stomach was going to cave in on itself, it was so empty. And while the hunger I feel now is nowhere near as severe, it still manages to bring back memories – unwanted memories, so awful and vivid that getting rid of them might just be worth the price of cooperating with O'Cleon.

But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

I'm just about to bring my finger down on a random image when the catalogue is jerked out from under me. _Oh, for goodness sake, what NOW?_ "Just wanted to make sure you were putting enough thought into this," O'Cleon says, eyeing me skeptically – I have a hunch he knows _exactly _how much thought I was going to put in. "Because that counts. And if you don't put in the effort, I can't be held responsible for the consequences." His hand slowly moves through the air, halting right over the garbage can next to his seat. The only thing stopping the fruit bar's long drop into the bin are two of his fingers.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that he thinks he can get to me this easily, or the fact that he _is _getting to me this easily. But my seething rage, albeit close to overtaking the feeling of hunger, has not yet surpassed it, and I find myself unwillingly continuing to go along with this. "_Fine_. Those ones."

O'Cleon glances at his sheet, bright orange eyes taking in the choice my finger points towards. "Scarlet carnations? Why?"

"What do you mean "why"?"

He shakes his head once more, the way he always does when I've missed something that's apparently _so _obvious. "Well, they certainly don't go with our colour scheme. Are they meant to symbolise something? I do hope so." The fruit bar shakes as he trills his last words. "Because that _counts_!"

All right, that's _it_. I've had it with O'Cleon, had it with the hunger and exhaustion, had it with this white, too-clean hospital hall that does nothing but remind me of my time here only a year ago. "It symbolises the blood of innocent children as you force it to be spilled year after year during the Hunger Games for your freaking entertainment!" Chest heaving, nostrils flaring, I glare at my escort with all the force I can muster, hoping my sudden, harsh outburst will finally snap some sense into him and make him realise that I'm tired, starving, worried and absolutely in _no _condition to be discussing _party decorations_.

He doesn't take the hint. _Unbelievable_. The way he stared at me for a good few seconds, I was positive he'd finally become aware of my irritation. But no, after a brief moment of contemplation, he merely turns away and says, "You know, I think that will be sending people a mixed message. And it doesn't really set the mood for a party. No, no, I think I'm definitely going to go with the violets."

All I can do is gawk at him for a moment in utter disbelief. How can he just completely brush me off like that? No acknowledgement of my anger, no growing annoyance of his own; just continued, meaningless banter on decorations. I can't even find it in myself to be irritated anymore, too surprised by his reaction – I mean, is he actually this ignorant, or just that good at keeping a level head? It couldn't possibly be the latter, could it? Not from a Capitol citizen. "Sure. Whatever." My incredulous expression is still present as I turn away, slouching further down in my seat and muttering, "Unbelievable."

I nearly jump out of my chair as something comes flying into my lap, my mind automatically jumping to things like _weapon _and _threat_. It's only when the object lands that I get a good look at it, and realise that it's not a knife, arrow, bomb or some other sort of dangerous projectile.

It's the fruit bar.

"Well, you tried," O'Cleon remarks as my shocked gaze travels from the food to him. "Lord knows you were awful at it – in fact, I daresay we were better off when you were picking things at random. But at least this time you gave, oh, I don't know, two percent effort? Probably the most I'll get out of you." A finger goes to his chin, as if he's in thought. "Also, I doubt it would look good for the press if one of my two victors starved to death. So, yes, eat up! Meanwhile, I will be getting out of this dreary place – it completely dampens the party planning atmosphere. And I'm assuming you have no problem with me working out the rest on my own?"

This last statement, and what it implies, is perhaps the most surprising thing so far. "I thought you didn't want me to "offload all the work on you"."

"Mm, yes, that was my original plan. But I think planning a party with you is actually more work than doing it myself. So," he continues smoothly, rising from his seat and still failing to acknowledge the expression of bewilderment I wear. "Ta-ta, toodle-oo and all that. I'll see you when you finally decide to leave this horrendously tacky dungeon." O'Cleon's eyes dart along the whitewashed walls and he shudders slightly before lifting his hand in an airy wave. A few brisk strides later and he's down the hall, exiting through the far door. Leaving me completely alone.

Usually I get the urge to cheer whenever my surrounding area becomes escort-free. Even if I don't act on the impulse, I usually let out an enormous sigh of relief – at the very least. But right now, I'm still too surprised to do anything. He . . . he left. Of his own accord, no excess insults or not-so-subtle hints from me needed. And what's more, he actually left me the fruit bar. I thought these Capitol people – O'Cleon _definitely_ included – were shallow, stupid and selfish.

I must be reading this situation wrong then. There's no way he would have actually just given me food out of the goodness of his heart. The word _poison_ briefly crosses my mind, but I shake the thought away. _Don't be paranoid_. More likely, he just doesn't want me to look and act like a starving mess during the party, tentatively scheduled for tomorrow depending on how Janaff's recovery goes. His physical wounds are almost entirely healed, but his emotional ones, well, so far, the doctors haven't kept him awake long enough for us to find out.

That should change soon, though. They've finally taken all their tubes and needles out of his body and, while it's for reasons I despise, I'm glad I'll finally be able to see him awake for more than a few moments.

And also very nervous. What do I s_ay_ in this kind of scenario? I mean, what is there really _to_ say? "Hey, Janaff, congrats on outlasting twenty-four children and murdering a few yourself to get here." "Look at you, all patched up! Like you were never nearly murdered by an insane psychopath!" "Hi there new victor! You ready to stop sleeping and let the _real _nightmares start?"

Yeah, obviously none of those are an option. I try racking my mind for memories of last year – O'Cleon was the one to greet me, what did he say then?

"_All right, so I know you're new at this victor thing – and by new I mean you became one like, two days ago. But it's the job of the escort and the mentor to sort out party details and I simply can_not_ choose between these two fountains as a centrepiece. Do you think both would be too garish? Isaac? Isaac? Why the frown?"_

Obviously there are few things more important to O'Cleon then decorating.

Once again, the thought of _Lura would know what to do_ enters my mind, right before a twitch of movement distracts me once more – though this time, it's not a dangling fruit bar that's responsible.

Janaff jerks once more on the bed, mouth moving in soundless pleas as his eyes dance madly behind closed lids. At the rate he's tossing and turning, he might fall off the bed; the doctors removed that restraining band along with their other equipment. The thought gets me to stand, and after all the effort put into getting the fruit bar, it's shoved unconsciously into my pocket, almost forgotten in lieu of this new development.

My hand jabs at the button on the wall, opening the sliding panel that leads to Janaff's room. Only now do I realise his cries are far from soundless; the walls just prevent noise from travelling outside.

"No!" he shouts, and I can see the stains of wetness that trail down from his eyes. "No, please, please!" No words follow this, only a half scream, half sob that chills me to the very core. I thought I was done hearing those the moment the Games ended; I guess I forgot the horrors that came afterwards. "_Please_! I can't do this!"

I should do something – wake him, bring him out of that awful nightmare but it's like his screams have frozen me in place, my legs unwilling to move any further into the room. And I'm ashamed to find that I'm almost preparing to bolt, run away the moment his next cry reaches my ears. Because I can't do this, I can't do this – oh god, the _memories _this is bringing up.

Janaff's shout rings in my ears, but in my head I hear the girl from 11, tortured screams finding their way into the cave where I'd hidden for the first two nights of the Games. The Careers must have caught her, and weren't killing her slowly, unaware they were doing so not a dozen metres from another defenceless tribute. At least I didn't have to watch them do it; until the Games recaps, where I sat on a stage in front of millions of people and stared in horror at the blood, the intestines falling from her torn and mangled stomach. . .

I squeeze my eyes shut, so tight it hurts, and desperately hope the pain will help to vanquish the memories. No, no, I can't do this now; not when I still see her every night in my dreams. If I let these things get to me now, I might turn into one of the crazy victors I saw roaming the halls of the Training Centre – like that girl who came into my room the night her last tribute died. I can't be like that, can't be like _her_; if I let my mind break then I'll have nothing, I'll be insane and I _can't_-

"I-Isaac?"

My frantic brain, to overwhelmed with the fear of losing it, didn't manage to register the lack of cries, now replaced with a heavy breathing that borders on hyperventilation. But it does hear the call of my name, and my eyes shoot open as the word hits my ears.

Janaff is standing, back pressed against the wall opposite me, blinking slowly as though he can't believe his eyes. I guess he must have jumped out of bed when he first saw me, terrified at the thought of who I might have been. Now though, as I nod in response, he lets out a deep breath – what I might have called a relieved sigh if it hadn't come out almost like a sob. "And this isn't . . . it can't be a dream. So if you're actually here . . . It's over. It's really, really over."

No, no it's not. In fact, you're going to have to relive it all tomorrow night, when the official recap is played for the entire country. Though I have a feeling that wouldn't be the best thing to say, so all I do is nod again.

Again, I wouldn't say his expression is nearly happy enough to qualify as "relieved". But there's a small spark in his green eyes, a little glimmer of hope that makes his pale, thin frame appear less . . . corpse-like. It's enough to clear his mind, in any case, and he finally seems to register the fact that he's standing on an ankle that had been completely shattered three days ago.

Trembling fingers find the bottom of his pant leg as Janaff hesitantly pulls it up, eyes taking in the sight beneath. Clean, smooth flesh – no bones protruding, no blood. He stares at it in shock for a moment, and I know exactly how he feels; you really can't understand the power of the Capitol's technology until they've repaired you from a state that, had you suffered the same wounds in the districts, you would have been dead within minutes.

But his newly healed ankle doesn't hold his focus for long; no, almost immediately after he overcomes his surprise, he's yanking up the other pant leg, and it takes me a moment to realise what he's looking for.

_Meredith._ The name, carved in blood, has been completely erased.

It's as though this is the deciding factor, the signal that Meredith Blade is really, truly gone. Janaff closes his eyes and this time I will call it utter relief that seeps through his features, allowing each one of his tense muscles to finally relax. His knees buckle, and he's halfway down the wall until he remembers I'm still in the room.

Eyes flashing open, he stands quickly, looking almost . . . embarrassed. He shouldn't be, though; I know my reaction was pretty similar after my Games had finished. But I can't find the words I need to tell him this, so I end up saying nothing, and the two of us continue to stare back and forth at one another while the most awkward silence in history begins to form.

Thankfully, Janaff cuts its development off. "I can see."

I raise an eyebrow as his furrow, eyes travelling all around the room. "I mean, I can see fine."

Ah, right; I forgot how he used to have glasses. The explanation, however, requires more than a simple nod or shrug and I take a deep breath, preparing to say the first words I'll have spoken to him since he went into the arena. "Capitol fixes things like that. Don't want an imperfect victor."

He notes the bitterness in my tone and curiosity takes over his features. "You speak from experience."

"I used to have asthma."

"Ah."

And we're back to silence.

Janaff's busy taking in his surroundings with his newfound eyesight while I watch him closely, having nothing better to do. I wonder if he feels the same way I did, the first time I took a full breath in this very hospital room. Sure, it was nice – but it only served to amplify the fact that I was nothing more than a Capitol doll, made up to look good for the entertainment of others.

At least it hasn't gotten that bad yet. With some of the rumours I've heard about what happens once a victor hits eighteen, well, I wish I had more than two years left to go.

Having looked the entire room twice over with his newly functioning eyes, the awkward quiet grows as neither of us can find anything else to do. _Think of Lura, _I tell myself quickly, the silence pressing around me like an uncomfortable blanket. _What would she say, what would she do, think, come on, think . . . _

Nothing. I _knew_ I couldn't do nice.

Thankfully, Janaff once again breaks the barrier of quiet, though this time it's a grumbling of his stomach as opposed to words. One hand going to his torso, he glances sheepishly up at me. "Sorry."

Once again, he shouldn't be – after all, the last time he ate in the arena was the morning of the big fight, and that was only the final piece of the dried jerky he'd packed with him from the Cornucopia on the day his bomb exploded. Usually you get small meals served to you in the hospital, but the doctors deemed his panic attacks to severe to risk keeping him awake in order to eat. So he's had nothing but the tubes in his arms to provide sustenance.

My own stomach nearly growls at the thought of food, and it's then that I remember the fruit bar in my pocket. Without thinking, I nearly reach a hand down to pull it out – and then I remember who I'm in a room with. My insides feel like they're about to eat themselves, they're so hungry . . . but I know Janaff must be feeling worse. And, as much as I wish I didn't, I guess I do owe it to him, for being such a jerk before the Games.

I sigh inwardly and withdraw the fruit bar. "Here."

Janaff glances up, his eyes zeroing in immediately on the food I hold. Even though he must know exactly what it is, he can't seem to help but ask, "What is it?"

"Fruit bar."

"From O'Cleon?"

I nearly, _nearly _smile at that. With everything that's happened, I forgot Janaff has spent time with our crazy escort as well, enough to know how crazy he is with these "healthy" snacks. "Yeah."

Janaff pauses for a moment, then hesitantly peels himself off the back wall to step towards me. He makes it about halfway across the room before his head jerks around, darting wildly from left to right. Arena reflexes, I've taken to calling them; the first few months after my Games, I couldn't stand being anywhere without a wall at my back. That way you know there won't be any sneak attacks.

Calming down from his frantic searching, a tinge of pink appears on Janaff's pale cheeks as he hurries to take the fruit bar. Again, he shouldn't be embarrassed . . . but as I continue to watch him, now tearing open the package with shaking hands, I realise it might be something else. Since he's woken up, I've been hugely impressed with his coherence, calmness and overall possession of sanity – definitely not what I was expecting, especially after all of those nightmares. But now I'm beginning to think it's an act, a façade he's putting up to hide reality. He's probably guessed at this point that the forced sleep he had to endure over and over again was due to his numerous panic attacks, and I'm sure, now that he's finally been allowed up, he wouldn't want to give the doctors a single reason to question his mental health and trap him back in that hospital bed.

A theory I believe is proven correct when one of said doctors steps into the room, and Janaff jumps about a foot in the air, the fruit bar nearly flying out of his hand as he stumbles away from the hospital bed faster than I would have thought possible in his condition. "Mr Skye – up and about already? Glad to see the treatments have been working well." The woman smiles, her expression so different from Janaff's, whose back is pressed against the wall once more, eyeing the doctor as though she's preparing to eat him. "The president is here now, providing you're feeling well enough to receive him."

Yeah, _right_. It's obvious the second she leaves, not even sparing Janaff a moment to respond, that the president doesn't give a crap how he's feeling. I roll my eyes and cross my arms in anger, but the feeling fades as I meet Janaff's shocked, worried gaze. Then, irritation is replaced by shame. I didn't even warn him what I knew would happen, let him know the whole reason the doctors unhooked him from their machines earlier than they'd planned. _Idiot_, how could I forget to tell him?

But even as I open my mouth to quickly summarise the events, the door is sliding back open, revealing four Peacekeepers, who march in, expressionless before their group splits down the middle. One pair to the left, one pair to the right, and they've cleared the way for the most powerful man in Panem as he strolls casually into the room.

Aside from the reason he's here, I should have also prepared Janaff for the president himself. The only glimpse he'd have had of the man would be the brief welcome given during the chariot rides, and that in no way would have readied him for the personality of Panem's leader.

"Janaff Skye." Varlios Strombin smiles from ear to ear, his arms stretched out on either side of him, looking almost as if he expects a hug from the new victor. Janaff stares at him, completely and utterly shell-shocked. Not only does the man seem, well, not exactly the president type, but his boyish grin, vibrant red hair and dark suit only make him stand out more in the white hospital room, his presence becoming only more overwhelming. "I have been so excited to meet you, you have no idea," he continues, bounding over to the stunned boy and grasping his limp hand in a frenzied shake. "And Isaac!" Varlios's gaze turns on me, and I have to say, it's still one of the creepiest stares I've ever received, what with the one gold eye and one silver. "Isaac Lume! What an honour! I had no idea you'd be here as well!"

"He is my tribute," I say curtly, ignoring Varlios's outstretched hand and crossing my arms just in case he makes a grab for a handshake anyways.

"Ah, yes, of course!" Completely ignoring my bluntness, Varlios turns from me to Janaff, his smile only growing – if possible. "Two males from District 8 winning in consecutive years – this _is _a milestone! I don't think we've ever seen anything like this before!"

His constant enthusiasm is quickly getting on my nerves, and I can see it's disturbing Janaff as well, who probably hasn't seen this much cheerfulness since he entered the arena. The president appears to pick up on this, however, and shakes his head as he walks to the newest victor's side. "Oh, but where are my manners? I can see my visit is taxing, though I must say, you look splendid! The doctors here are miracle workers, no?" He winks, giving Janaff a friendly nudge with his elbow. I can see its taking all of the boy's effort not to run as far from the president as he can. "I truly am sorry though, but this could not wait. I did decide to meet you here, however – didn't want to strain your condition making you come all the way to my house! You see, this is an informal meeting. So sit down, relax and I promise, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Varlios smiles warmly at throws his arm around Janaff, guiding him back to the bed and gently pushing him onto the soft mattress. The boy's hospital shirt has short sleeves, and I can see every muscle in his arm tensed to the point of snapping as he's forced to sit, memories of all the nightmares he's had in that bed most likely rushing back to him. I open my mouth to object, say anything I can to help him, but the president is already speaking again, completely cutting me off. "Yes, there we go. Feel better? Oh, Tarick? I saw chairs in the hall, could you please bring one in?"

I frown as the Peacekeeper he's referring to leaves. One chair – it's not in Varlios's habit to forget people, or to be outright rude and not offer to bring me a seat. What is he-?

"Dreadfully sorry," the president says, seeing my expression. "I know this is inconveniencing to you, but I was wondering if I could have a quick moment alone with Janaff? Offer him my glowing congratulations and all that." He throws another grin at the boy, whose worried gaze hasn't left the president since he entered. Now, though, his green eyes dart to me, shocked at the prospect of being left alone with Varlios and four Peacekeepers.

Like I'd let that happen. "Whatever you say to him can be said to me," I reply, my own eyes focused on the president. He raises an eyebrow at my outright rudeness, and one of the remaining Peacekeepers steps forward threateningly, a hand going to the baton at his hip. I've often been told I have "problems with authority", something O'Cleon is constantly bugging me to work on. I've yet to make any effort in appearing nice and sweet to those I so obviously hate.

So I believe I know full well what to expect as the Peacekeeper grabs my arm, having gotten into trouble with the officials numerous times back in 8. But, to my surprise, Varlios waves the man off.

"No, no – Isaac is right." It's odd; plenty of people in the Capitol refer to me as "Mr Lume", which I despise. But for some reason, I'd much prefer it if Varlios addressed me as such; using just my first name makes it feel too personal, like he knows everything about me. "After all," he continues, smiling at me as the Peacekeeper reluctantly releases my arm and, after shooting me a glare, steps down, "I can see you're highly concerned for Janaff. No wonder he made it home, if you care about your tributes this much!"

The attempt at flattery does nothing to budge the suspicious frown on my face, and Varlios finally gives up trying to lift the mood. "I suppose we will need that other chair after all. . ."

"I'll stand." He stops, mid-gesture, about to signal one of the other Peacekeepers to leave. But I have no intention of sitting down; I'd like to keep as much distance between myself and the president as possible.

Varlios shrugs, just as Tarick returns with his chair, the very same one I was sitting in for the past three days. I know – from _way_ too much experience – how hard and uncomfortable that metal seat is, yet Varlios reclines into it as though it's the most luxurious chair in the world, even if it is a tad low to the ground. Which places Janaff in an even more awkward position, as he now has to look down to see the president.

"Now, Janaff." Varlios's back is to me, making it perfectly clear that Panem's latest victor is the sole focus of this conversation. Fine by me – I just want to listen. "First off, let me congratulate you once again, that was an incredibly win you pulled off! A real nail biter all throughout, but that ending! Well, I can assure you, I was rooting for you the whole time." I'd hope so – who in their right mind would have had fingers crossed for Meredith's victory? "And I'm sure young Isaac here is more than capable of instructing you in the duties of a victor, so I won't go into that much. But there is one thing we should discuss." Varlios pauses slightly before continuing, as though for dramatic effect – god, I hate this guy. "The victor's interview."

Janaff's eyes narrow in confusion, and I find myself mimicking the gesture. When I'd first heard the doctors talking about the president's planned visit and how they had to unhook Janaff from all their machines, I'd asked every person who passed down the hall if they knew why Varlios was coming. No one could answer – either because they didn't know or wouldn't say. So I'd formed my own ideas, some actually plausible and some borderline ridiculous, but absolutely none of them were as banal as instructing Janaff on the victor's interview. Seriously, I did that thing without any help whatsoever. So why did Varlios go through all this trouble now?

Well, I should get my answer soon enough, especially as he continues speaking. "I'm sure you've seen plenty of interviews in the past, yes?" Janaff nods slowly, and I can almost see the wheels spinning in his brain, trying to come up with the president's motive. He may be a lot smarter than me – having had next to no education at the community home, there's not exactly a point in me denying that – but he doesn't seem to have reached a conclusion either. "Well, they're quite fun, especially since there's so much more time to do them! You only received, what, three minutes during the first interviews? Barely enough time to know the real Janaff Skye." I can't see it as Varlios is facing away from me, but he's taken on a tone that always accompanies one of his enormous grins, which I'm sure he's showing off to Janaff now. But there's something almost . . . restrained about it. As though it's just an act, an attempt at cheeriness before the real serious stuff sets in. I lean forward slightly in anticipation, but don't bother holding my breath – I've had all of two conversations with Varlios Strombin and if I've learned anything, it's that the man loves to beat around the bush.

"Yes, just three minutes," Varlios muses quietly, almost to himself. But he shakes his head and continues, words directed back at Janaff, "So obviously in these interviews, we'll get to hear more about you! Your reaction to the Games, obviously, but also your strengths, weaknesses, family . . ."

I can almost hear the mental _click_ of Janaff's mind, the dawning realisation on his face is so evident. And that's what tips me off. Of course, in Janaff's first interview with Caesar, he'd barely had any time to mention his home life – the Capitol audience had been too curious as to how a scrawny boy from 8 had managed to worm his way in with the Careers. But this time, he'll be questioned on everything. Including his parents. And how they died.

"And I'm just here to make sure everything stays as it should. You value peace highly, I can tell – just like myself. So I trust you'll keep any mention of your parents' . . . _involvements _to a minimum?"

I look to Janaff, not expecting him to look happy, but assuming he'll agree all the same – after all, as cheery and air-headed as Varlios acts, it doesn't change the fact that he's the _president_. And that happy-go-lucky nature masks the dangerous twisted mind of a psychopath.

But as I take in Janaff's expression, I realise just how different it looks. Only moments ago his eyes were wide, filled with apprehension and fear. Now they're narrowed and set, glinting with a steely determination that, despite the hospital clothes, his paleness and frailty, truly shows him for what he is: a victor.

"But why would you want that, sir?" It's the first time he's referred to the president formally, yet I doubt even Varlious could miss the almost patronising tone that accompanies it. "After all, my parents fought for peace as well."

Silence.

Utter silence.

Holy crap.

So much for sheltered, spoiled kid; even _I _wouldn't have had enough guts to say that to the president's face, and that's with my authority problems. The first second of quiet passes after his words, and I find myself overcome with the strange urge to stand up and clap.

But I don't, because the next moment, the full impact of Janaff's words hits me. _"After all, my parents fought for peace as well."_ That couldn't possibly get any more rebellious. And he just announced that to the _president of Panem_. Who's gone stock-still, all fake cheeriness and enthusiasm utterly drained from his rigid form.

_Holy crap._

"I understand this may not be the best time for such a discussion," the president begins, and even knowing Varlios, I'm shocked at how calm his words are. Yet each is carefully spoken, almost as if he's toeing a line – trying to keep his true feelings hidden. "You're tired, hungry, stressed. Perhaps I should return at a later time-"

"It doesn't matter." Janaff doesn't even flinch, though he must know there will be consequences for his words. "My answer won't change."

More silence follows these words, and while I can only see the eyes of one, I'm positive Janaff and Varlios are engaged in some sort of mental stare down, each searching the other for any sign of weakness. I glance over at the Peacekeepers, who also seem to have no idea how to react. If this sort of situation had occurred, say, a year ago in the districts, Janaff would have been hauled to the town square, publically whipped and potentially shot for his actions. Even as a victor, this punishment might not have changed. But the president is with him, and Varlios has made no gesture to signal help from his guards.

In fact, when he does finally move, it's not at all in the menacing way I imagined. No, he just gets up and _sighs_. Sighs! Like Janaff is some sort of misbehaving child. I know I'd be furious if someone treated me like that, but the new victor's expression never changes. He's determined to see this through to the end.

"Well, I do hope it does," Varlios says in answer to Janaff's earlier statement. But . . . it's not a threat. At least, it doesn't sound like it. He shakes his head regretfully and continues, "Peace is beautiful thing, and yet only a handful of people fight for it. I was hoping you'd be one of those special individuals."

"Who says I'm not?"

Varlios smiles, as though the new victor had just told an amusing joke. "Goodbye, Janaff. And congratulations once more on your truly spectacular win. I suppose we'll all get out of your hair now. Try to get a good rest, help to clear your mind." He claps his hand down on the boy's shoulder, leaning down with an expression of pure kindness – one I wouldn't trust even if I was dying and Varlios was the only person on the planet who could save me. "After all, those nightmares can't possibly be good for your brain."

The effect is instantaneous; Janaff stiffens immediately, his steely gaze widening, dilating pupils washing away his determination as though it had never existed in the first place. And while he's occupied with his memories, I'm more worried about something else – how the hell did Varlios know? Unless a doctor filled him in . . .

No. Because the bigger question is, how did he manage to get here so fast only moments after Janaff finally awoke? That could have happened any time, and there's no way he'd be quick enough to leave his mansion and drive here no matter how fast he was alerted of the news. He was waiting. Maybe even staying on a floor in the Training Centre and watching the hospital through its numerous cameras ever since the Games ended. He could have been spying for three days.

And if his little talk with Janaff was important enough that he leave the comfort of his home for who knew how long to lie in wait here, then . . . oh god, what kind of consequences will there be for Janaff's statement?

Varlios grins as he pats a now rigid Janaff on the shoulder before turning to me, and I have to fight the urge to jump away. Outright anger, outright threats I don't care about – but this man and his hidden agenda makes me more nervous than I care to admit. "Shall we be off, Isaac?"

Me, go alone with him and four Peacekeepers into the hall? No thanks. "I think I should stay with Janaff."

"_I _think," Varlios replies, taking a few steps towards me, "young Janaff needs some time to relax. We're all stressing him out!" Varlios smiles and shakes his head at me, like I'm the one responsible. "Your concern for your fellow victor is admirable, but let's give him a well-deserved break, shall we?"

No – an answer I fully manage to express as I flinch away from Varlios's outstretched arm. At the moment, all of my thoughts hold the same basic idea: _Don't let him anywhere near you! _But they disappear the moment Varlios raises an eyebrow at my action. I've just shown a weakness, shown my apprehension of man who lives to exploit the fears of others. No, no, no! Stand strong, remain impassive; for goodness sake, Janaff managed to do it and he just woke from three days of nonstop nightmares. I try to cover the move with a glare aimed directly at the president, firmly reminding myself that, no matter what his next move, _I will not cringe._

And I actually manage to pull it off – something I instantly regret as soon as Varlios's arm loops around my unmoving shoulders, casually pulling me with him towards the door. "Don't worry, I'm sure Janaff will be perfectly fine without your company for a few minutes. Isn't that right, Janaff?"

The boy to whom he's referring is still wearing the same shell-shocked expression, the fruit bar he's somehow managed to hold on to slowly being squished to a pulp in his tight, white-knuckled grip. Even if I could think of something comforting to say though, I'd never manage to get it out – I'm much too concerned with my own situation.

The president pulls me towards the door and I can't do anything to stop him – even if I did shake away his grip, thereby showing my obvious nervousness, he has a squad of four Peacekeepers. I could argue and disagree as much as I wanted – if he wants me out in that hall, no matter what I do, he'll get me out in that hall.

And he does, the Peacekeepers following right behind us, and I can't help but tense up at the thought of four armed soldiers behind me, invisible to my eyes but with the potential to attack before I could so much as turn around.

Varlios must think I'm reacting to him, because the instant my shoulders rise in apprehension, he's patting me reassuringly on the back. "You don't think you're in trouble, do you? Oh, no, absolutely not! My dear boy, you are a _model_ victor." He smiles warmly at me but it only serves to enhance his reputation as much too good a liar. I doubt any "model" victors would have twice been escorted to the president's mansion for small discussions on their behaviour. "And mentor as well! I can tell you truly care for that boy."

He nods towards the window, through which Janaff is clearly visible. He hasn't moved since we left, and Varlios's features droop in sadness as he takes in the boy's pale form. "Tragic, what happened to him, yes? I don't think any of us were expecting such a . . . macabre finale."

Too bad the president doesn't truly feel this way; if he did, then the Hunger Games could be finished with a snap of his fingers. It's a fleeting thought at first, but I find myself constantly coming back to it, hearing it echo over and over in my head. Varlios's fake sympathy sickens me, to the point where I can't help but ask, "If you hate the gore so much, why don't you just end the Hunger Games?" Dangerous words as is, but even then I take a leaf out of Janaff's book, adding on a patronising "Sir?"

The president looks at me sadly, as though I've failed to see some sort of evident big picture. "Sometimes, I wish I could, Isaac. But do you remember what came before the Hunger Games?"

I know I'm treading on highly dangerous ground, but I just can't seem to stop myself. Maybe it's Varlios's attempts at appearing nice. Or maybe it's Janaff's earlier determination. "Peace?"

"Quite the opposite." Varlios shakes his head. "_War_, Isaac. A war that tore apart the entire country."

"Only because of how bad the Capitol treated the districts."

Each Peacekeeper stiffens at my words, and I find myself somewhat shocked by them. But, at the same time, it's _true_. The Capitol was cruel to the districts, so they rebelled. I won't stand here and let Varlios name us the cause of the Dark Days.

Oddly enough, he seems to be the only one unaffected by my statement. No gasp, no tensing – just a casual head-tilt to the left, his gold-and-silver stare firmly fixed on me. "I take it you won't heed my advice then? About warning Janaff to be careful what he says?"

I was going to. Right up until I stepped out into this hall, I was planning on telling him potential consequences for speaking the wrong words. But he's made me realise just how unfair Panem truly is, and how it's utterly ridiculous for Varlios to try and deny it, pretend to act like the good guy attempting to preserve peace. The only thing he's bent on preserving is his own hide.

And it bothers me. Enough to ignore all common sense. Enough to forget every warning O'Cleon has ever told me about "respecting authority". Enough to say, "No."

For all his acting talents, Varlios can't manage to look surprised. "A pity." He looks back towards the window, where Janaff has finally gotten over his initial panic and is now steadily beginning to eat the slightly squashed fruit bar. "The boy's condition is improving so beautifully. I'd hate for him to do something that might ruin his progress."

My back stiffens visibly. "Is that a threat?"

Varlios's eyes widen as the fake shock comes. "Why, of course not! Isaac, I only have the people's best interests at heart." He shakes his head sadly. "I wish the same could be said for you."

I bristle at that, my jaw clenching so tightly that it makes speaking difficult. "It _can_."

There's a light twinkling in his shimmering gaze, almost like amusement at the reaction I've given him. "No, it really can't." He leans closer, and I have to fight every urge I have to run as he whispers, "Or you wouldn't have allowed Precious to die."

Then he's off, shoes clicking sharply on the tiled floor as he walks away, the Peacekeepers following closely behind him and leaving a shocked and speechless me alone in the hall once more.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye<strong>

Isandra sits back in her chair, frowning first at me, then the makeup brush in her right hand. "Tizzy?" she calls, addressing another member of my prep team. "Don't we have anything darker?" Her gaze travels to the container sitting on the table nearby, containing a powder already quite a few shades off from my original skin tone. "This stuff just isn't doing the job."

Before Tizzine can reply, Farenfal swoops in, eyeing me critically as only a stylist can. "Even if we did, you couldn't use it." He jabs at my cheek and I have to force myself to remain impassive, to tune everything out – especially my own thoughts. "See how different it looks already? Completely uneven with the tones on his neck. You'll have to paint his entire body if you want it any darker."

"Oh, I wish we could have," Lyon says from behind me; I don't know what he's doing, but the frequent, harsh tugging on my hair gives me some ideas. _No_ – no, actually, it doesn't. Ignore it, don't think about it – or you might remember the feeling of another's hand in the same place, yanking you head up before slamming-

_No_. Relax. Breathe.

". . . said no to the idea?" Lyon continues, and I force myself to focus on his words because the alternative is listening to my thoughts. "All we wanted to do was permanently dye his skin a few shades darker. I told Isaac, said straight to him, "Have you seen how pale Janaff's skin is? We got by before, but he's a victor now, he should look handsome and that means a tan! The surgery is harmless, I can guarantee you, he'll thank us all for it! We just need your permission, as his mentor." And the boy said no to my face!"

"O'Cleon says he suffers from a severe lack of fashion sense," Tizzine manages to say, even while holding three pins in her mouth. Don't, _don't _think about what she might do with them. No one's going to attack you. You're fine. You're fine.

"Oh, is that it?" Lyon shakes his head, and I can hear the _swish_ from his enormous blond and braided mane – a sudden fashion trend that cropped up during the Games. "Well, I feel just awful now! The poor boy – isn't there anything the doctors can do for him?"

"Some people are just beyond help."

The sadness on Tizzine's face as she says those words stuns me, enough that I even manage to stop worrying for a moment. That is a genuine expression of distress. Over Isaac's "lack of fashion sense". And yet people like her can stand to cheer and laugh as they watch children die. It's so illogical, my head hurts just thinking about it. What has been done to these Capitol citizens to make them so, so . . . _backwards_?

"No, see, now you have to redo the whole coat." Farenfal rolls his eyes as the heat rushes to Isandra's tattooed cheeks, before his gaze returns to the clock on the wall. "And we only have four hours! Quick, quick or we'll never get this done!"

The newest prep team member holds her eyes downcast as she nods before grabbing a nearby facecloth. She was promoted sometime during the Games – apparently one of the District 6 stylists went missing and a prep team member was promoted to fill the spot, meaning they now had need of another person. Margory, previously working with District 8's tributes, was all too happy to try for the position, and when she got it, Isandra from District 12's team came to us. Apparently, as Farenfal seems to enjoy reminding her again and again, they have much lower standards over there.

Without warning, the soaking cloth is pressed against my face for the fourth time today, and I have to fight the urge not to scream at the gag covering my lips and eyes. No, _no_ – just a rag, a wet rag used to wash off makeup. Breathe, breathe – as much as you can with a towel over your nose and mouth, trapping any oxygen and rendering you-

_No._ Breathe. Come on, Janaff, you've got to get a handle on this.

A difficult thing, seeing as the doctor's only stopped knocking me out with their chemicals yesterday morning. Then there was the rather traumatising encounter with Panem's leader. Then there was Isaac's retelling of his conversation in the hall with Varlios. Then, after finally being allowed to leave the hospital and return to our usual floor in the Training Centre, we found O'Cleon and were forced to listen to a two hour rant on how there were no lavender streamers left in stores and what was he supposed to do _now_? And then, just when I thought I might finally be able to relax, O'Cleon and Isaac remembered to tell me that the Games recap and party afterwards were scheduled for tomorrow. Which, now, means tonight.

I didn't despise my prep team when they were first working on me for the chariot rides and interviews; it's hard to hate someone who's just doing their job, even if said job is helping to prepare children for slaughter. But now, especially functioning on zero hours of sleep, I've just about reached my breaking point with them.

I made sure not to fall asleep last night – not after the horrors of the days after I'd gotten out of the arena. Even still, I just can't turn the terrified part of my brain off. Around every corner, I swear I see the figure of those waiting to kill me; every person's touch is hers, nails digging into my flesh and drawing blood once more. I act reflexively, whirling around, neck twitching every which way, hands often rising into a defensive pose. Earlier today I nearly punched O'Cleon as he surprised me with a clap on the back from behind.

God, what is _wrong_ with me? It's over – it's over, it's over, it's over. I'm supposed to be better now, be happy, live the rest of my life without ever fearing the Games again. Yes, I know that's not how it goes for some mentors; I've seen the unstable ones wandering around, murmuring nonsense under their breath. But that's not _me_. I'm intelligent, my brain functions perfectly and logically – insanity is entirely out of the question.

Then why, w_hy _do I see _her_ everywhere I look?

What's worse is I have to hide it. Since I woke, I can't shake the feeling that everyone is constantly watching me, just waiting for a slipup on my part to swoop in, deem me "unstable" and put me back to sleep for who knows how long. I can't . . . n-no, I can't have that happen. Not when the sight of white nearly makes me physically sick, it brings back so many haunting memories of that hospital room. So I have to appear to keep it together.

Which is getting harder and harder to do as the day goes on. The poking and prodding from my prep team, the wet cloth that slides over my face three more times before Farenfal is happy with the makeup on my face, the sting of whatever creams they lather on my skin, the yanking of my hair . . . no, I just can't take it, I swear I'm going to scream and run, it's too much, too much, too-

"_Finally_." Farenfal closes the door with a bit too much force as my prep team exits, and the slamming sound causes me to jump. He doesn't notice though, too busy muttering under his breath. "Useless bunch of . . . Ah, but I suppose dealing with inferiority is the price of genius." I can't decide whether to allow myself a brief period relaxation as he turns back towards me; my muscles feel as though they're screaming, I've kept them so tense all day. And now that the prep team is gone, the worst might finally be over. All I have to do now is get into my costume.

And then ride to the City Circle, where I'll be forced to watch the three hour Games recap in front of millions of people. Watch the blood, watch the death, watch . . . _her_.

_Don't think about it. Shh, shh, don't think about it. Relax. Breathe._

"I mean, this is just ridiculous." There's a finger skimming through my hair, twirling a lock of it and I have to literally clamp my hands around the chair's armrests to keep myself from bolting away. _Ignore the memories, ignore them, you can do this, you are _fine. "Honestly, I don't think they understood at all what we were going for at all! That poor, pathetic flute player costume was used in your last interview! There will be elements of that tale in the outfit – the _outfit_. I specifically said we were going for Prince Charming with the hairdo!" Farenfal sighs as his hand leaves my hair, allowing me to let out the breath I've been holding since he started touching me. "Well, we don't have time now. Let's just get you in the costume, shall we?"

One good thing about my stylist: he's never tried to dress me himself, something I'm hugely thankful for after hearing about Precious and experience before the chariot rides. I'd met Mulina a few times at dinner and such, and while she seems nice, especially for a Capitol citizen, she has absolutely no concept of personal space.

All Farenfal does is open a door leading to a small change room off the main area, and it's all I can do to restrain myself from running into it. Alone, _alone_ at last! No one bickering or nudging me or doing any that might trigger the memories. Thank _god_.

My relief feels tangible, it's so strong as I close my eyes and sigh in content, leaning against the shut door. Last night, I was terrified of being by myself, terrified that, with no one else to focus on, I might accidentally fall asleep, leaving myself vulnerable to . . . _her_. Because, while she may be dead – I've finally gotten myself to accept that fact – she . . . M-_Meredith_ holds more power over me than she ever did alive.

My next exhalation isn't nearly as happy as the first; in fact, I have to fight to stop it from coming out as a sob. _It's okay, it's okay, _I think, trying to make the reassuring voice in my mind sound like my grandmother. Everything will be all right when I'm back in her arms, I know it. All I have to do is get through these next few days.

Sharp bangs sound on the door, making me jump wildly away from it. But I'm getting better at calming myself – practice makes perfect and unfortunately I've had _lots _of practice – and my breathing barely even reaches a state of hyperventilation before I manage to steady it. "Janaff, Janaff! You know we have a deadline, yes? What's the hold up? Oh no, did one of the figurines fall off? I _told _Isandra to make sure they were secure! Ugh, that woman is definitely getting fired after this . . ."

I have absolutely no idea what he means by figurines, but I'm suppose I'll find out soon. Sighing slightly at the interruption in my brief respite, I turn on the spot and look towards the hanger at the back of my change room, taking in my outfit for the first time.

Oh god.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, n-

"Janaff? Come on, boy, aren't you dressed yet?"

I can't . . . I can't, oh god, it's-

"Janaff?"

It's _her_.

And everyone else.

My grandfather owns practically every fairytale in history, and he used to read me one each night when I was younger. So, after figuring out the arena was based on the very stories I used to know by heart, it was relatively easy to figure out which "character" I was intended to be, judging by my interview outfit and, later on, the rat mutts that drew everyone straight to the castle – and to me. But this, this . . . no, I can't! When Farenfal said there would be elements of the Pied Piper, I assumed he meant something along the lines of another prop plastic flute they'd have me carry around, like the last time.

That's not what this is at all. No, this is . . . this is cruel. And horrible. And monstrous and awful and sickening and oh god, oh god . . .

"Janaff? Are you even putting the costume on?"

"I-I . . . c-c-can't . . ." The words are barely a squeak as they exit my mouth. How disgustingly well they go with my outfit then.

The base is relatively plain. A silken white shirt, seams outlined everywhere in gold, with smooth black pants and a scarlet cape. But, starting at the bottom of the left pant leg and weaving a path all the way up to the shirt's left shoulder, are figures of rats. Only, rats with hair. Rats with semi-humanoid faces.

Rats depicting the twenty-three losers of the 37th Hunger Games.

B-But that's not all. They're placed in order of their rank. So, number twenty-three, curling around the material which will cover my ankle, is a red-haired, green-eyed rat representing Emerald Marsh, who I guess came twenty-fourth. I didn't know her well, didn't even see her die, but right now I couldn't care less. My eyes are not glued to the thirteen-year-old's figurine. No, they're focused on the rat baring its fangs as it stands on the left shoulder. Blonde hair. Ice blue eyes.

Meredith Blade. Placed second.

She's standing on the same shoulder she tore apart with her teeth.

"Come on, Janaff, it's just _clothes_, for goodness sake, boy. One would think you'd be used to that in the fashion district. Janaff?"

This time, I can't even manage a response – all the air has been stolen from my lungs, stolen by that rat, that _monster_, with the fangs and the claws, tearing into flesh, gnawing on bone, whipping me forward so she can watch me _burn_ . . .

"Ugh, they told me this would happen. But we have so little time! Honestly, do I actually have to call the doctors for you?"

"No!" The mere mention of "doctors" snaps me out of my horror, introducing an entirely different fear. Not that hospital again, not the chemicals and the unconsciousness, _please_. After the memories this outfit has unearthed, the nightmares will tear me apart.

"Then get out here. In the outfit."

But I don't know if I'll be able to hold on to my sanity with that thing on.

Only with another commanding call from Farenfal do I manage to take one hesitant step forward, my eyes actually in pain, they're so wide with apprehension. An idea hits me and I quickly snap them shut, whispering to myself that it's okay, it's okay, if I can't see them, I don't have to worry. I can do this – I c-can.

It's incredible that I can actually keep my balance, what with my eyes closed and the fact that I'm shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. But somehow, my trembling hands manage to find the pants, pulling them off the hangar and while I brace my body against the wall, I also brace my mind for the trauma of wearing a costume holding the representations of twenty-three dead children.

The pants aren't too bad, though shudders run through me as I feel the added weight on my left side, making it impossible to forget exactly what lies there. But my stomach twists sickeningly as I reach out for the shirt, fingers brushing against one of the rats and I nearly throw up as I touch first coarse, rough fur, then short, smooth hair. I jerk away from the shirt, eyes flying open, feet scrambling madly back – I can't do this, I can't do this, _I can't do this_.

"Oh, this is ridiculous." The door slams open and I jump wildly away, quaking in terror at the figure that stands before me. Because no matter how much I tell myself that it's Farenfal, _just Farenfal_, the only face I can see is _hers_.

"Well, at least you're halfway there." Completely missing my obvious panic, Farenfal strides over to the rest of the outfit – no, no, don't look at it, don't look at _her_ – and grabs the shirt off the hangar. "Do you honestly want to be babied like this, though?"

I can't manage an answer, have to use all my willpower to restrain myself from completely melting down as Farenfal approaches, tugging at the thin smock I was given to wear while my prep team went to work. "Come on, don't be difficult – need I remind you of the time? This event cannot be rescheduled! Not unless you want to disappoint millions of viewers while you laze about in the hospital for who knows how much longer."

Again, it's only the mention of the hospital that finally gets me to move. My muscles feel so reluctant, I can't believe I actually manage to slowly grab the edge of the shift and tug it over my head. The hesitance in my movements does nothing to prepare me for Farenfal though, who swings the new shirt around my shoulders the moment the old one is off. Even squeezing my eyes shut tight does nothing to help, because I can still feel the weight on my shoulder, visualise her monstrous face in my head. Please, I . . . I thought I was done with this.

"There," Farenfal says, and I can feel him finish buttoning up the shirt. "Wait." Suddenly there are fingers under my chin, on either side and no, no, don't think about how _she_ did the same thing, right before she slammed my head into the ground. "I don't believe this! The lighting in here makes you look even paler! Isandra truly did an awful job with that makeup, I desperately need to do some touch-ups." He glances at his watch, completely oblivious to the real reason the blood has drained from my face. "Oh, we don't have time! Quickly, quickly, into those shoes and let's move, we were supposed to be done there ten minutes ago!"

Only with Farenfal's constant harassing do I finally open my eyes to slide the simple black shoes on. _Just for the shoes, just for the shoes then close them again, let him lead you away and whatever you do, don't-_

Look at the rat on my shoulder. Something my eyes do the minute they become unoccupied with the shoes. It's like some sort of horrific magnet, drawing my gaze and keeping it there, frozen in fear as I take in every detail of the figurine up close: menacing blue eyes, elongated claws, fangs poised inches above my shoulder. No, no . . .

"Come on!" Farenfal is grabbing my hand, tugging me out of the change room. After that, I don't really pay attention. I'm too focused on trying to tear my gaze away from the rat, trying to ignore the tidal wave of memories. Trying to cling to the last bits of sanity I have.

I don't know about the last two, but I do manage to finally move my eyes as we reach the underneath of the stage, where I will shortly be lifted to while millions of people watch. The new winner has a different plate than the escort, stylist, prep team and any past mentors, yet both Isaac and O'Cleon are waiting nearby as Farenfal practically drags me over. Both rise at our entrance, but while O'Cleon walks over to analyse my outfit, Isaac stops short at the sight. "What the heck is this?"

He doesn't sounds happy, but I don't glance over to check. He's standing to my left and I'm terrified that if I move my eyes even a fraction from being focused in front of me as they are now, I won't be able to stop myself from getting caught back up in the rat's glare.

"I know, I know, but we couldn't help being late," Farenfal says, though I have a feeling he and Isaac are on completely different pages. "First Isandra made a mess of his makeup, then Janaff took an _ungodly _amount of time getting dressed, and then-"

"That's not what I meant," Isaac replies curtly, striding over to the stylist. It's a funny thing, I used to think my mentor was either incredibly shy or anti-social. But he seems to only be that way around those he doesn't know well – O'Cleon, and Farenfal, who would have been his stylist as well, have held numerous arguments with Isaac, and I've never heard him speak more words to anyone but them.

The young mentor approaches me, and now I can definitely see his growing scowl out of the corner of my eye as his gaze darts from the rats to my pale and slightly shaking figure. "Jeez, what is _wrong _with you?"

"I told you, the makeup wasn't my fault! It's that airheaded newbie, Isandra. Athough," Farenfal continues, frowning deeply at Isaac, "if _someone _had given us permission to dye his skin, this wouldn't have been a problem."

Isaac meets the man's glare head on. "Also not what I meant." He turns on O'Cleon, whose still looking the outfit up and down with curious orange eyes. "We're getting him out of this."

"I don't think we have the time," O'Cleon says, glancing at his watch. Then his entire face lights up with the dawning of a new idea, and he looks back at Isaac, eyes incredulous. "Isaac! You noticed the awful makeup job? By yourself? Not only that, but you care this much about it! Oh, I am teaching you something after-"

"For goodness sake, you're both idiots." Isaac glowers at both O'Cleon and Farenfal. "I mean his _clothes. _The _rats_. How could you think that was a good idea?"

"It goes with the fairytale I mentioned earlier. And it shows how he emerged victorious from a crowd of twenty-three other children." Farenfal's features morph into a disdainful expression. "How could it _not _be a good idea?"

The young mentor opens his mouth to snap out a response, only to stop as he catches sight of me once more. Perhaps it dawns on him that, in my state, hearing all of the terrible reasons for this costume listed out loud wouldn't be the best of ideas. It's already a struggle not to traumatise myself any further with the thoughts that ring through my head.

"Anyways," O'Cleon says, stepping forward and either accidentally or intentionally putting himself between myself and Isaac's worried glance. "We'd best be off to our separate platforms. You know the drill, Janaff?"

"Of course he does," Farenfal cuts in, waving a hand dismissively. "After all, he did the exact same thing for the launch."

_The launch._ Standing on a metal plate, rising, rising, rising in darkness until there is light. Twenty-four children placed atop an enormous tower, surrounding a golden horn. Twenty-four children eyeing the supplies, the weapons, the food. Twenty-four children planning their escape.

Twenty-three children waiting to die.

_Stop._ I should feel guilty for how much easier it is to brush off the deaths of innocent kids than the nightmares of my demise, yet with all the fear in my heart, I just can't manage to add shame into the mix. _This is better, _I tell myself, _this is better. _Much better than the other memory you hold of the launch.

_My bare feet are cool as they stand on the plate beneath – smooth and metal, and rising up, up through the tower to deposit me at the top._

No. No, no, no, you weren't supposed to think about that one, you were supposed to ignore it!

_It's the one tall structure amidst a bountiful forest, and I can see every corner of the sea of green that surrounds me. No, not- not green . . . orange? Orange and red. Is it autumn?_

Please, _please_ stop yourself. You can't think of this now. Not with the recaps only minutes away.

_No – no, it's _fire_, fire causing each leaf to curl in on itself before it blackens and dies. Fire jumping from trunk to trunk, fire spreading, fire all around me!_

Not with _her _perched on my shoulder.

_And then, piercing the smoky air comes the most bone-chilling roar I've ever heard._

_CRACK!_

The sudden noise causes everyone to jump, but my reaction is considerably more violent. Until I leap back and my newly fixed eyes take in the cause of the sound.

I hadn't realised that, while O'Cleon and Farenfal were heading for the door, Isaac had neglected to follow them. Instead, he'd approached me, and while I was too busy quivering at the thought of my nightmare to notice, he'd placed a hand on my shoulder. Right on the head of the Meredith rat.

Which is now clenched tightly in his right palm, until he tosses it into a nearby garbage bin and takes in the now headless figurine sitting near my head. "Much better," he mutters, and for a moment, I swear his lips nearly twitch upwards; I've never seen him smile once.

Farenfal, however, does not seem to share my mentor's opinion. For a moment, he's too shocked to speak, golden teeth fully visible as his jaw drops. "You . . . you . . ."

Then, as though someone flipped a switch inside his mind, he leaps forward, and it's all O'Cleon can do to restrain him from pouncing on Isaac. "That was a one of a kind outfit! _One of a kind_! And you have the nerve, the audacity to . . . to . . . Idiot boy! Ruiner of all that is beautiful! How dare you break my creation, _mine!_ _I _am the stylist, the genius and you are nothing! _Nothing!_ You're not even worthy to gaze upon the clothes I create, much less touch them or . . ." Farenfal's face is twisted in a mask of pure rage that scares me so much I take a step back. The flaring nostrils, the glare, that shouted, ranting nonsense – it reminds me all too much of _her_.

Yet Isaac remains unperturbed, merely crossing his arms and rolling his eyes at the furious stylist. O'Cleon shoots him a glare, seeming as though he'd much enjoy releasing the seething man on the boy. However, surprisingly enough, he opts to play the peacemaker instead. "It's all right," he says, attempting to console Farenfal – though it's hard to hear his words over the other man's violent ravings. "Remember his . . . _disadvantage._ The boy just can't help it."

"I don't care if he has no fashion sense!" I swear the stylist's shriek is loud enough to reach the crowd of Capitol citizens seated above us. "That's no excuse! To defile one of my outfits, one of my genius, one-of-a-kind designs is a terrible offence! A _criminal _offence! He should be thrown in prison for his sins!"

"Oh, if only," O'Cleon mutters, shooting another glare at Isaac, who matches it with a pretty powerful one of his own – looks I have a feeling the two have long practiced. "In fact, why don't you go alert the officials of this terrible deed? Just remember to be at your plate in two minutes." The escort all but shoves Farenfal out the door leading to the rest of the stage's basement and surprisingly, the stylist storms off without any further complaint. The same, however, cannot be said of O'Cleon.

"Well, I hope you're happy with yourself," O'Cleon says, rounding on Isaac, though oddly enough, he doesn't appear angry – merely irritated. "The outfit's ruined."

"Good."

"And Farenfal hates you."

"Good."

"And I've just about had enough of you myself."

"Good."

O'Cleon throws a tired glare in Isaac's direction, rolling his eyes once more as the boy's determined expression remains unchanged. "Well, I'm certainly glad you're a victor now," he says, addressing me as he reaches for the doorknob. "We can bear the burden of _his_," he jerks his head in Isaac's direction, "attitude together." The door swings open and O'Cleon adds a quick, "Good luck with tonight", before exiting through it.

Isaac's still glaring at the spot where the escort stood, but after a moment, seems to realise he'd better be getting into position as well. However, before he can move, I stop him. "T-t-thanks."

The stutter is embarrassing, especially considering I'm talking to a boy younger than myself, and I can feel a bit of heat rising to my cheeks. This boy won his Hunger Games at fifteen, two years younger than myself when I emerged from the arena. Yet he stands here, calm and collected, while I have to fight to keep myself from melting into a panic attack.

"You don't . . ." I actually manage to break my gaze away from the wall in front to stare at Isaac as he speaks. "Have to . . . you know . . ." He's struggling to find the words, and I'm beginning to wonder if the cause of my mentor's quietness isn't due to the fact that he barely knows me. The only time I've ever really heard him talk a lot is during arguments. Maybe it's just hard for him to express anything other than sullen hostility. "Be embarrassed," he finishes finally. "Everyone's been through this."

The fact that he's almost trying to comfort me is surprising, but if anything, it only amplifies the feeling of shame within me. I shouldn't need reassurance from anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old – yet I cling to his words like a lifeline. _Everyone's been through this._ Meaning the other victors? I've seen most of them around though, and they seem largely fine.

_Not right after their Games though. _With all the fear in my system, I haven't been able to think clearly, instead comparing my state to those of people who won their Games five, ten, twenty years ago. But now, I think back to every recap ceremony I can remember, where they show the victor reacting to the highlights of their time in the arena.

The 30th Games, when I was ten: a girl from 1 had emerged victorious, and though she'd appeared largely disinterested, there was a definite tensing in her expression as she watched the final fight. The victor after her had been much more visibly shaken, hands trembling anxiously with a look of horror on his face as he relived his Games. After that came a Career from 4, who'd done her best to remain unaffected, but it was hard to miss the looks of sadness she wore as her allies were killed. Then, a highly unstable girl from 9. A nervous, guilty-looking girl from 5. A Career from 2, who could still barely managed to hide her shock, sorrow and shame as she was forced to watch the death of the district partner she hadn't managed to save.

Then Isaac. Sullen and hostile for the most part, yet his eyes had widened and he'd flinched over a number of gruesome deaths during his Games.

They were all affected, just like me. Yet now they act as perfectly normal, functioning members of society. I'm like them. And I'll be like them. It doesn't matter what happens right now because the vast majority of victors and their mental states are all telling me one thing.

I'm going to be fine.

The relief that washes over me is so powerful, I nearly collapse on the spot as all of my muscles finally, _finally _begin to relax. No matter how bad it seems now, it's going to get better. Relatively soon too, if Isaac is anything to go by. It'll be all right – no more nightmares, no more arena reflexes, no more panic attacks, no more _her_. It'll be all right.

I turn back to Isaac, trying to find the words I need to tell him how much he just helped me, yet whatever I come up with just doesn't seem to be enough. For his part, he can't seem to think up anything to say either, though he keeps opening his mouth, hesitating, then closing it once more. Eventually, he mutters a brief, "I should go," before heading for the door.

He's just about to exit when my voice finally begins to work. "Thanks," I say again, hoping the lack of stutter in my voice this time will show him just how much his words have helped.

Now it's Isaac's turn to look embarrassed, though he has absolutely no reason to. Still, a pink tinge creeps up his dark skin and he jerks his head in an awkward nod before quietly slipping out the door, leaving me alone by the metal plate.

Which I should be getting on. Swallowing hard, I manage to get my reluctant feet moving, until I'm positioned right on top of the silver circle. It takes all of my willpower to stay on it, especially with the memories of the launch and my nightmare, but somehow, I stay in place, furiously chanting to myself, _It will all be fine, it will all be fine, the victors wind up all right, it will all be fine._

I just wish I could get better faster, could stop jumping at every single loud noise I hear. The sudden uproar of clapping that goes on from above sends a jolt of terror through me like an electric shock, nearly making me leap off the plate. But I force myself to calm down, remind myself of where I am. This is not the arena – this is the basement of the stage in the City Circle. Caesar's probably just entered, that's all. No mutts or traps – just an interviewer with rainbow hair.

The thought helps as the next round of clapping begins, though it's still hard not to flinch at the cacophony, a noise that only grows louder as first my prep team, then O'Cleon, then Farenfal are introduced. Isaac comes last, and the crowd is so deafening, I feel as though I'm in the centre of a storm, with thunder clashing all around me. Of course they'd be thrilled to welcome the first victor to bring home a tribute from their district right after they won their own Games – but do they have to be so _loud_?

With such an onslaught of noise, I'm jumpy as is but when the metal plate beneath me jerks, I nearly lose it. The feeling is just such a powerful reminder of the launch, it almost makes me physically sick, no matter how much I remind myself that I'm just being lifted to a stage, not the tower, just a stage, a stage, a-

Sea of chaos. Bright lights flashing everywhere, people screaming and applauding, everything overloading my senses and it's too much, too much. I must look absolutely shell-shocked, frozen in the face of such overwhelming pandemonium. There couldn't possibly have been this many people at the chariot rides, or the previous interviews; I would have had a heart attack. Something I'm well on my way to now. Heart pounding, head throbbing, throat tightening – no one prepared me for this, told me there would be so many people, so much noise and lights, shining in my eyes, preventing me from seeing any features of the audience. For all I know, _s-she_ could even be hidden there . . .

"Janaff Skye, everybody!" There's a tugging at my arm and I thankfully manage to restrain myself from jumping away after noticing it's just Caesar. He gestures good-naturedly to the ornate, golden chair on stage, and, after my distinct lack of movement, kindly leads me over. "Quite the overwhelming welcome, isn't it? Well, we're all just so happy to see you!"

The crowd roars in response and even with my anxiety, I can't help but admire Caesar's ability to spin any reaction into a good one. I suppose he's had lots of practice with all the past victors and their various personalities.

Still, I doubt even he would make a victor running, panicking or throwing up look good, so I force myself to remain calm as I take a seat, glancing over at the row of chairs off to the side as I do so. This is where my "crew" sits, and it's to Isaac that I look now. His face remains impassive, but he nods slightly and it's about as much of a comforting gesture as I'll get, with Caesar continuing his speech.

"This is quite the milestone, isn't it?" The interviewer sits across from me in a chair of his own, obscuring my view of Isaac and the others, which only serves to make me more nervous. _Keep calm, just keep calm._ "Why, only last year we were all gathered here celebrating another victory for District 8! Just incredible!" Caesar claps me on the knee and I try for a weak grin – if anything, it might help to fool myself into thinking I'm fine. "8 has really stepped up their game, haven't they? Haha, I smell a new Career district coming on!"

I highly doubt that, but I guess I'm not in much of a position to object, given my choice of alliance. Wow, did I really join the Career Pack, have allies during the Games? It feels like so long ago, I'd almost forgotten Code's easygoing banter, Rhine's sarcastic remarks, Cordelia's optimism, Rowan's constant anger, Perrin's leadership and M-M- . . .

Oh god, to think at one point I actually considered her to be my _ally_.

"But I digress. And shouldn't be keeping you folks any longer! After all, you're only here for one thing, aren't you?" Caesar dramatically puts one hand to his ear, a much, much too happy grin on his face considering what's we're about to sit through. "Let me hear it, Panem! What do you want?"

"Hunger Games!"

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you!"

"Hunger Games!"

"Little bit louder!"

"HUNGER GAMES!"

It's a sickening chant, and I find myself clenching the armrests of my chair a bit too tightly, but surprisingly, this isn't entirely out of fear. No, while panic has ruled my life for the past four days, there have been hints of other emotions, particularly when the president made his surprise visit to my hospital room. Anger. Anger at the Capitol for enjoying this so much. For the fact that twenty-three children's deaths, and my frequent panic attacks are all a result of their _amusement_. It's disgusting.

The feeling lasts for all of ten seconds before the lights dim and Caesar announces the beginning of the recaps.

There are screens placed all around the City Circle so everyone can watch, but the one above the audience, in front of me is by far the largest. My eyes widen as it comes to life, heart beating faster despite my silent shouts of _no, no, remember to stay calm! Remember to breathe, relax, ignore the events before you, pretend it's nothing, a different Hunger Games, a different one entirely. That was your plan._

I used to be good at those: plans. But now the fear rules everything, and I'm completely paralysed as I watch the reapings montage. The clips are so fast, it's hard to distinguish between them, but for someone who's seen each of these people in person, it's easy. Cordelia leaping excitedly for the stage. Achilles denying volunteers. Rhine not receiving any. Code racing forward before the others. Sparkie, Ram, Perrin.

_Her._

My knuckles are tightening their death grip around the armrests as each tribute, each _dead_ tribute flashes before my eyes. I'm ashamed to admit that some are easier to stomach than others, but all still cause that twinge of guilt inside my heart. They died so I could live. I might as well have murdered twenty-three innocent children.

My reaping is saved for the end, and played out in full. Precious is called, yet she's barely even shown – the cameras are focused on me the entire time. How they managed it, I don't know; it's not like they would have had a camera watching me specifically for the entire ceremony.

Or maybe they did. Because they knew I'd get reaped. Because I was right, and it was all rigged. No one wanted to let the son of two rebels run freely around.

Yet now I'm a victor. I guess someone screwed up.

The pre-Games stuff has this awful show tune playing alongside it as first the chariot rides, then training scores are shown. Mine and Meredith's are shown together, pictures of both of us each coming up with our respective ten displayed underneath. The music changes for a moment, slower and more chilling, as though hinting that our showdown was always meant to be. And that's when I realise what kind of story the editors tried to tell when they spliced together the Games footage. A fairytale. With me as the hero and Meredith as the villain, straight from the beginning.

I can't imagine the president will be happy with that, even if it's a completely skewed perspective. Well, they got one of us right.

But heroes don't win the Hunger Games.

The footage cuts to the interviews, and even here, it's easy to tell the fairytale angle. My interview is played almost in full, and Meredith's is edited to show her vicious side, which means practically all of her original lines are used anyways. One line in particular makes me flinch back into my seat. _"The arena is no place for weakness. And everyone here has it. Everyone except me. So the others better watch where they step in the arena. Because if they cross me, I will kill them. Eventually."_

The small smile, the glint in her eyes that hold such strong promises of pain send a coil of memories twisting through my head, wrapping around my throat, cutting off my breath. My exhalations are all short, sharp gasps, fingers digging into the gold of the armrests and I realise that I can't do this, not if I'm this bad after watching only the interviews. Please, I won't be able to take the Games. My head jerks wildly to the right, eyes pleading with Caesar as though he might somehow be able to stop this. But his gaze is firmly fixed on the screen, lips fixed in a permanent grin that tells me everything I didn't want to hear: there's no way of stopping this. And, like a magnet, the screen draws my eyes just as a bloodcurdling scream echoes through the area.

The bloodbath has begun.

They've skipped Dylian's leap from the tower, most likely on purpose as even a gesture like that, purely in the interest of self-preservation, could be considered rebellious. Instead, they move to the first death, which produces a sharp gasp from me. It's Emerald Marsh, and for a bloodbath death, it's incredibly drawn out. Only because Meredith is the attacker.

My hands abandon their posts on the armrests, arms wrapping around me instead as I try to simulate a comforting hug. But it does nothing to help, and each one of Emerald's screams tear through me as Meredith slices her stomach, than drives her sword straight through the young girl's leg. Oh god, oh god, oh god. The blade is twisted this way and that, still stuck in Emerald's flesh, and her screams only grow louder and I can't, I can't do this! My fingernails are digging into my sides, trying to create a pain that might distract me from the horrors playing before my eyes but nothing works, nothing, and Emerald's screams are in my head, echoing loud and clear, even after Meredith wrenches her sword out and stabs the girl in the heart, I still hear the screams, still see the blood only it's mine, _I'm _screaming as her teeth tear into my flesh-

"No!" My exclamation is barely audible over the sound of the Gwen, who, having just killed the boy from 3, is now offering to join Lore and Taralo. But Caesar hears, and I can see him glance curiously at me out of the corner of his eye, as though he can't possibly fathom what I'm objecting too. After all, I didn't know the boy from 3 at all, or his district partner, who is now being confronted by Rowan, and shrieks as she sustains a deep wound to her arm. But they're not the reason for my outburst, not the reason my heart is about to beat right out of my chest. Her face still swims before my eyes and I want to scream again, have my cry mingle with Imogen Torrini's as Rowan begins to torture her. _Deep breaths, Janaff, deep breaths. _No, I can't, I can't, and at this rate, I'm about to move into full on hyperventilation. Especially as, after they show Achilles's fight with Perrin and his heroic save of Imogen, Devera Let and Calican Sareamer are shown trying to escape the tower together, only to meet Meredith.

At least there's no immediate blood as Devera is thrown from the tower, but the disgusting _squelch_ she makes on impact, the way her limbs splay out and break while her head caves in is almost enough to make me retch anyways. God, how many did tributes did Meredith murder? The only acts of violence I saw her commit were at the trap and during the finale, yet that was more than enough to give me three days' worth of nightmares. But now the recaps are showing each death in gruesome detail, every single way Meredith murdered a child. And they'll all be appearing in my dreams tonight. Oh god . . .

The last bloodbath death is Carlisle's, and after Rhine's confrontation with Catherine, the screen jumps around to give us a view of every remaining tribute. The pair from 12 heading off into the woods, my district partner not far off. Achilles desperately trying to help Imogen while Catherine sprints through the forest, relatively close to their position. Gwen, Taralo and Lore's alliance, beginning their trek as well. Bree, alone, gripping her knife tightly as she pushes through the bushes. Calican stumbling away from the tower, still distraught over his district partner's death. Dylian already long gone.

Last they show us Careers, a quick shot of us regrouping, though they do cut to a close up of me before the screen fades to black. Five cannons boom, as the images of the dead all appear on screen. Then they melt away, showing the beginning of the real Games.

Which begins with the Careers discussing the kill list while I busy myself with taking care of Rowan's severed hand. It made me sick then and it makes me sick now; yet what twists my stomach more are Meredith's words, said all too enthusiastically as she grins at an ill-looking Code and Cordelia.

"_What's the matter? Don't you two just _love _the scent of burning flesh in the morning?"_

The editors must have adored that line, it provided them with such great foreshadowing for their tale. But all it does for me is bring back the memories of fire, bone chilling roars and insane cackling, so vivid I can practically smell the smoke, feel the castle shake beneath my feet as I sit on the throne and watch, powerless to stop the destruction around me.

_Not a throne, not a throne._ Abandoning all pretense of acting "fine" and "in control", I draw my legs up to my chest, trying to remind myself that I'm sitting on a chair onstage, not a throne in a castle. These events aren't real, _are not real_.

But they did happen. And now I get to see exactly what all the other tributes were doing before they died.

The camera cuts to a quick shot of my own district partner, enough to show the audience she's planning on going after the pair from 12. The behaviour is so surprising, it manages to pierce the bubble of fear surrounding me, introducing shock into the mix. Admittedly I hadn't spoken to Precious much, especially after she found out I'd joined the Careers, but she'd seemed so nice and kind. Why would she so willingly prepare herself to kill?

My question is answered a moment later as she looks to the sky, allowing the cameras to zoom right in on her face. "I'm doing this for you, Molly. See you soon."

Her sister. Little Molly Blu, who loved my grandfather's library and always seemed to wear a smile, despite the bruises on her arms face that told the horror story of her home life. Little Molly Blu, who loved her sister dearly and would regale both my grandfather and I with tales of her sister's adventures with her friend Kev.

Little Molly Blu, who will never see her sister again.

The grief is a different kind of pain from the outright fear, and having felt way too much of the latter, I still can't say the former is anymore pleasant. I don't know how Precious died, but I remember seeing her face light up the sky during our third night in the arena. My heart had twisted at the time, though I'd forced myself to ignore it; she'd had to die if I wanted to make it home.

That won't make her death any easier to watch though, and I know it must be coming soon once Rhine and Cordelia find Bree, who died the day before Precious. My District 2 ally throws her sword, sending their victim falling back out of the tree she was camped in, then Rhine leaves the girl to Cordelia, who seems to be going through some sort of inner turmoil as she stares at the fallen Bree, an arrow nocked but never released. Until Rhine returns and Bree attacks. Back at the tower, we'd never heard the full story on how the girl from 5 had died; Rhine had kept it short and blunt. It's only now, seeing it for myself that I realise she really was trying to protect Cordelia. Rude, sarcastic, cold Rhine Carson actually did care.

It makes my heart jerk with another jolt of grief, especially at the thought of Rhine's death, and how I'll shortly be forced to relive it. The hole, the bomb – Meredith carving her name into my leg. I jump as the memories flow back to me, my hands unconsciously lifting my pant leg just to double check, for what has to be the thirtieth time in two days, that her name is no longer present. It's the only thing that helps to remind me she's gone.

Though it doesn't do much as Meredith appears onscreen again, and I have to fight to stop the shaking from overwhelming my body. She isn't doing anything, not yet, but as I watch, Perrin points her towards a puddle of blood on the ground. No, no! I can't watch her kill again – no, she can't! Precious dies right after Bree, I definitely remember that. And both Meredith and Perrin had said they'd seen no one during their time hunting.

It's then that they cut to a shot of Calican, stumbling through the forest before emerging into a small clearing with one, enormous tree in the centre. _The trap_. Even though the hole currently takes the form of a tiny rabbit hole, I'd recognise the place anywhere, and I squeeze my legs tighter against my chest, trying to comfort myself from the onslaught of memories.

But the Games haven't reached that point and thankfully I don't have to watch the break of our alliance yet. Instead, my eyes focus on Calican, who approaches the tree seemingly with the intention of sleeping underneath it.

Instead, the ground caves out under his feet, and he only just manages to jump back in time. Peering over the edge, he discovers the oddly shaped spears and I can practically see the gears turn in his head as a noises from behind indicate he's being followed. Calican glances back, quickly running for the cover of the darkened forest just as Perrin and Meredith step into view. They split up, with the District 4 girl heading for the rabbit hole. So caught up in her desire to gain another kill, she barely notices Calican sneaking up behind her, and despite the fact that I know how this must end, I can't help but focus on the screen, desperately praying for a different outcome. As though it could make everything all right.

But of course, Calican's plan fails, and though he kicks Meredith over the edge, she's saved when her foot catches on a tree root. Watching her hang there, head inches from being skewered on the spears, I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment so overwhelming my whole body feels as though it's been infused with ice cold lead. One tree root. One lucky tree root. If that hadn't been there, she would have died and everything, _everything _could have been different. The dragon would have barely come into play. Achilles, Perrin, Taralo, Gwen, Rhine, Code – none of them would have had to die such awful deaths.

And I wouldn't be here, shaking and barely concealing a moan of distress as Perrin helps Meredith out of the hole.

The trauma of seeing the crazed maniac who tortured and nearly killed me is so powerful, I can feel myself beginning to crack as every new shot of her lights up the screen. I can't do this, need time to collect myself at the very least. Otherwise I'm going to break down right here, onstage, in front of millions of viewers.

Funnily enough, I'm given the time to do so. The next few minutes of the recap are focused on Lore, Gwen and Taralo, who, judging by the upbeat and totally out of place music now playing, are meant to be portrayed as the sort of "comic relief" characters. Which is incredibly disturbing, especially after having witnessed both Gwen and Taralo's deaths and knowing that there was absolutely nothing funny about them. Still, as sick as it makes me, I do manage to calm myself slightly as, onscreen, a series of events ensue that result in Taralo attempting to kiss Gwen. The audience roars with laughter as Gwen wakes and punches him in the face, and though the noise grates against my ears, I'd much prefer it over the screams of Meredith's victims.

Which, thankfully, we get quite a big break from, though I can't really find it in myself to be relieved; the next big event is Precious's death. The scene begins with her hiding behind a rock, keeping a close eye on the pair from 12 before a parachute descends towards her. Another thing that surprises me – I never received a sponsor gift during my time in the arena.

Not to mention the fact that she gets a sword, something I just can't imagine Isaac willingly sending her. I try to look around Caesar and make eye contact with him, but the boy's eyes are firmly fixed on the screen, though his features show more emotion than I've ever seen present on his face. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. It never occurred to me that watching this might be almost as hard for him as it is for me.

Especially as Precious ends up losing her fight with the boy from 12, Malia coming to his rescue and sending my district partner tumbling over the edge of the cliff. But all sympathetic thoughts of Isaac vanish as the cameras manage to zoom in on Precious one last time, catching a whispered "Molly" before she smashes into the rocks below, body broken even more gruesomely than Devera's. And my heart clenches once more at the thought of the little girl left without her big sister – and she's the only one I know about. How many other siblings have had their hearts broken, watching these Games? I know Rhine definitely has a sister, as did Perrin – some of the others must have as well.

The crushing guilt as I realise that I only would have left behind my grandmother and grandfather, had I died, rather than an enormous family like Perrin had, is strong, but doesn't leave me as shaken as before – perhaps because what plays out on the screen in front of me isn't nearly as scarring. A short battle between Rowan and Meredith that ends up accomplishing nothing, though Rowan's scream as she drives her nails into his burnt stump is chilling. Then they pan to the District 6 girl, who was hiding not a metre from the Careers in a tall oak. She descends her perch, ends up joining with Achilles and Imogen to help the older girl and I feel a slight pang of regret watching her work. Catherine was actually the only tribute in the final fight that I didn't nearly murder, having been too shocked when she rolled through the window and interrupted me and Gwen. I don't even know how she died, it was before I'd made it to the tower – but I guess I'll find out eventually.

First though, after a few shots of Dylian reaching the castle, Gwen, Lore and Taralo in some cave and Meredith putting us to work at the trap, comes the dragon. Code and I were lucky enough to avoid it all, only catch glimpses of the beast in the distance, but now I watch in horror as what we both missed is shown in incredible detail. Calican finding the monster, racing away from it just as Rhine and Cordelia confront the pair from 12. However, before that, they do show a bit of my allies' prior conversation.

"_You consider me a friend?"_

"_We're in an alliance together, aren't we?"_

Did that really mean we were friends? No, I don't think so – I wouldn't have considered Rowan my friend, and of course, Meredith was entirely out of the question. But us younger Careers did form relationships. Cordelia with Rhine. And me with Code.

And I left him in that hole, through the bomb down, was fully prepared to kill him just so long as I took out Meredith too. Which I didn't. So I murdered him for no reason at all.

The guilt is more powerful this time, but it lasts only a few moments; the more selfish feeling of fear takes precedence as soon as the dragon attacks. It swoops to attack Rhine, Cordelia and Calican initially, but after Malia and Noah start moving, it turns on them. The camera zooms in on them as Noah shoves some sort of note into his district partner's pocket before pushing her away, sacrificing himself to save her. I should feel sad, ashamed that a hero like that didn't win the Games where I did – but all I can focus on is the dragon's fire, surrounding the seventeen-year-old as Malia's screams merge together with the roar of flames. I don't know how the cameras managed to get such good shots, but we're forced to watch every second of Noah's death, every drop of melted flesh dripping off his bones appearing in high definition before me and no, no, this can't be happening, I can smell it, smell the charred flesh and hear the maniacal cackle, no, NO!

I have to slap both hands over my mouth to stop any sort of noise from emerging, and finally, I manage to close my eyes and distance myself from Noah's fate. But I can still hear it, the fire's roar ringing through my head even after the cannon booms, and despite myself, I can feel my eyes beginning to sting with the formation of tears. I can't do this. I just can't do this.

My eyes stay closed all throughout the next bit, which is so disturbing in my mind because it's just a bit of lighthearted banter between Rhine and Cordelia as they attempt to name the dragon. And the audience _laughs_. Even though they know exactly how this is going to turn out, though they know Cordelia doesn't make it out alive – as she suggests "Darrel", the chuckles are quite audible.

They die down quickly as someone new speaks though, and despite my attempts at remaining silent, a few whimpers manage to escape my throat as _she_ speaks. Especially when she tells Rhine to capture the boy from 10 for later. I don't even want to think about what she would have done to Calican if he hadn't gotten away.

_Oh, you know exactly what she would have done, because you took his place. First she whips you, then she pulls you to the ground and claws at your stomach. And after all that, just in case you still have the tiniest bit of hope that you might get away, she slams your head to the ground and plunges her teeth-_

A muffled sob wracks my body at the memories, the _memories_ – oh god, and we're not even there yet. No, we're only at Cordelia's death, and while I can hear shouting and roaring and speaking, all I can focus on is the _crack, crack, crack_ of Meredith's whip against flesh. My flesh. No, no, _"No! Cordelia!"_

_BOOM._

And my ally's dead.

I should feel bad, sad at her death. But I can't – can't because I'm too worried about _my _wellbeing. It may be selfish, especially since I'm the only one who made it out of the arena alive, but I just can't find it in myself to fret about others when all I can see is her face, her grin, her whip and all I can feel is pain, pain, _pain_.

But there's something else too, some tiny feeling of apprehension that isn't a part of my immediate fears. Like a little voice, telling me to open my eyes. And as reluctant as I am, I can't seem to stop myself from doing just that, only to smallest sighs of relief at the fact that the dragon is no longer featured onscreen – just that little girl, Catherine. But my eyes only stay glued to the screen for a moment, because after that, I remember just what this feeling is. I had the same one of reaping day – the feeling that I'm being watched.

The light from the screen behind me is enough to illuminate some of the citizens in the front row, and all of them are fully focused on the television, cheering as Catherine climbs our tower, presumably to get medicine for her injured ally. But one pair of eyes isn't watching attentively; no, they fix me with the gold and silver stare that only the president of Panem possesses as he gazes at me from his special booth. And though I can't make out the rest of his expression, I have a feeling he might just be enjoying this. Realising he has absolutely nothing to fear from my earlier words. Because my behaviour now is making one thing clear: I'm no rebel. I'm just a weak, terrified child.

The cloud of fear disperses slightly, making way for two things. Shame, at the thought of what my parents might think if they saw me cowering like this. And anger, always anger when I think about the Capitol, the Hunger Games and the man who rules both.

It doesn't entirely overtake my worry, but it's enough for me to resume a proper sitting position, feet on the ground and hands on the armrests. I already showed weakness to Varlios once, when I let his mention of my nightmares overwhelm me. Tonight hasn't really helped in terms of showing my strengths, but I can change that now. I can. _I can_.

Though the challenge might prove more difficult than I anticipated, because after Catherine's daring feat at the tower, Dylian's battle with a disturbing mutt and Gwen, Lore and Taralo escaping the cave, it cuts to Calican, inadvertently killing Malia. And hers was a cannon I remember all too well – it was the one that broke the Career Pack.

There's a brief scene with Rowan and Perrin, in which I discover the real reason our District 7 ally left, as opposed to Perrin's lie about Gamemaker interference. There are a few shots of the remaining five Careers at the tower as we discuss the turn of events, but they skip most of the dialogue, jumping right to Perrin's fateful proposition.

"_Did you check your trap, then?"_

"_No, actually. Why don't we go check right now? Just the two of us."_

"_No. We'll _all _go."_

And just like that, the fates of Code and Rhine are sealed.

I forced myself not to get attached to people in the arena, knowing full well they'd all have to die if I wanted to live, but I can't help the painful twitch my heart makes as I watch Code and Rhine. Perrin and I left quickly to retrieve the bomb, so I never saw how the pair from 2 were thrown into the trap by Meredith, never heard the ultimatum they were given. One that, despite their rivalry and apparent dislike for each other, they both ended up refusing. Their hatred didn't run as deep as they thought.

It's an aww-worthy moment for the Capitol, but the audience's sighs are quickly cut off as Meredith jumps into the hole between the pair and unconsciously, I can feel myself beginning to tremble. Not more death at her hands. Please, I was perfectly happy not to see this the first time; don't make me watch it now.

But I'm unable to turn away as Meredith grabs Code's wrist while his hand is still clenched tightly around his knife. His stutters, then the undeniable _snap_ of bones breaking are nearly enough to send me over the edge, remembering a very similar sound in a very different situation, where I was on the ground with my ankle being hit over and over, mercilessly pounded until the bone-

_S-stop it, _I think, but I can't even keep the stammers out of my own thoughts, and my shaking becomes more and more violent as Meredith forces Code to stab his district partner. But my reaction isn't even for Rhine – it's for me, the arena me, shown in the next shot as both Perrin and I race towards the screams.

"Don't," I whisper, as Perrin and I split up. "No, no." I edge towards the hole, and first Rhine, then Code come into view. "No, no, stop, STOP!"

My shout is thankfully drowned out by the sudden increase in the music's intensity, which blares through the City Circle as Meredith's whip hits my ankle and I go down hard. I can't watch, I c-can't watch . . . but I'm as frozen as the me onscreen, watching helpless as Meredith approaches. They're playing this out in full – my first big moment in the Games. So I'm forced to watch Meredith repeat every single gash on my leg as she carves her name into my skin.

I miss Perrin coming to my rescue, tearing my eyes away from the screen to frantically check my ankle once more. It's gone. It's gone, it's gone, it's gone, her name's gone. But it used to be there, I can't deny that because onscreen I'm staggering to my feet, grimacing as blood pours from the open wounds. My own leg feels like it's on fire, ghosts of pain racing up and down it even though I know it should be fine. But it's not, it's not and I'm going to scream, make this quick, please, I can't hold on much longer.

It's as though the editors have heard my thoughts and want to mock me. As soon as Rhine's cannon explodes, everything goes into slow motion, all sound disappearing except for the music. Meredith cackles gleefully at the girl's death before Perrin races forward, shoving his district partner into the hole. Even his shout is slowed down, giving enough time to cut to each Careers face before finally settling on me as I clench my teeth, light the flares and throw the bomb.

All at once, everything returns to its normal pace, with all the sounds of the explosion played in full, and it's an overwhelming effect that nearly sends me jumping out of my seat. Especially as the cameras focus solely on me escaping the blast, capturing every hysterical gasp, every desperate "no" that passes my lips. Right up to the last one, the terrified, heart-wrenching syllable that comes out as more of a sob once the District 9 girl's face lights up the night sky. With all the excitement that went on during her passing, Imogen gets next to no screen time for her death. Because the next shot they decide to show is of Meredith, eyes flashing open and face twisting murderously as she slowly begins to crawl.

My terror is so strong, I barely even register Catherine leaving her allies, or Rowan receiving his hook and confronting his district partner. Gwen's torture and the battle with her allies afterwards seems gruesome, but I can't even force myself to pay attention – I'm still back at the site of the explosion, replaying that last clip of Meredith over and over in my head. I'd been so close, _so close_. But my plan had failed and everyone had suffered the consequences.

Rowan is eaten by the dwarves and Lore dies heroically, but both are lost on me because the next shot is back to _her_, crawling over rocks, finding a cave and oh god, this is it, this is where she finds the d-d-d- . . .d-dragon

_Kill her! _I want to shout as the beast glares at her. _Kill her now!_ But of course it doesn't, and what's worse is the part where she receives the sponsor gift. What kind of awful people are the District 4 mentors, to send her that? Did they know what they were doing? Know the death that would follow, the burning and torture and pain, so much _pain_.

I can't take this. The thought has been bouncing around my head all night but I honestly cannot take this anymore. I have to go, have to leave . . . but even as the idea occurs to me, I'm watching Perrin and Dylian's fight through the castle, ending with their battle on the clock and the seventeen-year-old's body sliced directly in half. But even though my stomach churns at the disgusting sight, my brain barely focuses on it. Because the recap is skipping days ten and eleven, where nothing much happened. So now it's jumping right to a fight between Achilles and Perrin.

I'm biting my lip so hard to keep from making a sound that my tooth pierces through, and suddenly the taste of blood fills my mouth, its disgusting taste doing nothing to help me forget what's about to occur onscreen. Obviously I wasn't there to witness their fight, but I saw the tapestries after, and I know there's only one way it ends.

Which becomes evident as soon as Achilles takes off down the beach, heading for the rockier terrain and the cave it holds. My old ally is right behind him, and both tumble to the rocks before Perrin manages to land a solid hit to Achilles's side with the boy's own trident. The District 1 male is done for, that much is clear, and Perrin seems ready to land the finishing blow.

Until _she_ appears.

_Stay strong, stay strong, stay strong. _I know the president must still be watching me, so I force my eyes to remain open, trying for an impassive expression. But I know I've failed the moment the dragon opens its mouth to roast Achilles alive – here the memories are even worse than the ones brought up by Cordelia and Noah's deaths. At least then, it was only the dragon. Now it's also M-Meredith, grinning madly as she addresses Perrin. One of the dragon's claws slam into him, keeping him pinned to the ground and at this point, I realise that there's no way I'm keeping my earlier promise to myself. My eyes snap tightly shut just as Perrin's scream resounds all around me, and it's incredibly difficult to resist clamping my hands over my ears as well. That way I wouldn't have to hear Meredith's crazed ramblings, the cracks of her whip, the roar of flames, the boom of the cannon.

And just like that, we're down to the final six. The arena's last battle begins now.

The sound of my voice snaps me out of my worried daze and unconsciously, my eyes open to focus on the screen. It seems the Capitol decided to include my little pep talk to myself, and it's painful to watch. I thought I was overwrought by fear then, but compared to my state now, I appear perfectly healthy and sane. If only I'd known what was in store for me.

The music plays, the camera cuts to shots of different tributes being pushed along with the rats, and I realise I can't do this. Not like before – no, those seemed like minor worries, minor reactions to my smaller fears. No, now I cannot physically do this. My throat is closing up, my hands shaking violently as Calican enters the castle and finds his knife. And s-she's not even here yet. But it doesn't matter, I can see her anyway – behind the bookshelf trap Taralo falls into, waiting down the hall I nearly kill Gwen in, laughing in the bedroom Catherine enters. She's everywhere, all around and my vision blurs madly as the first cannon booms. No, no, that means there's only one more before she makes her true appearance. My skin feels like it's on fire, yet my insides are frozen solid with fear, only the contents of my stomach free to churn wildly.

_BOOM!_

Second cannon. Oh god, it's coming, it's coming, it's coming, _she's _coming-

_"Hello, boys! I can't believe you started the killing without me. Well, we'll just have to make up for lost time. Won't we?"_

She's here.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .

I lurch wildly in my seat, bending almost double as my hands go to either side of my head, nearly slipping off do to the sweat they're producing. My vision is nearly all black now, I don't know if I closed my eyes or they're just not working – nothing is registering, nothing but the sounds of the battle, which felt so long in reality, but seems to zoom by during the recaps. The roars of the dragon, whimpers that might belong to Taralo, the sounds of the catapults – but the only thing that reaches my ears is _her. _Her words, her laughter, her shrieks. I thought they sounded bad in my nightmares, but this is surround sound, and I can hear her from every corner of the City Circle.

_"Find him, Darrel! Find him, find him, FIND HIM, __BURN__ HIM!"_

No, no, you can't! I won, I-I won, you're never supposed to find me again, you're _dead_. Dead. I can hear it play onscreen, Taralo cuts the rope and she falls and she _dies_ and that's it.

O-only it's not. And now . . . n-now . . .

"_YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD KILL ME?! YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD BURN ME AGAIN?! I'LL. _NEVER_. BURN!"_

Oh god – those are _my _screams surrounding me, shrieks of absolute agony that threaten to tear me apart. I want to join in with them, open my mouth to add another cry into the mix, but nothing comes out. My throat is almost completely closed, only the smallest, fastest breaths able to make their way to my lungs – not enough oxygen by a long shot. _Maybe you'll pass out. _It's the only reassuring thought that comes to mind as my tears begin to fall freely, more of my shouts coming from the numerous speakers. _Pass out and stop watching these horrible, horrible events._

_Only to relive them all in your nightmares._

The thought terrifies me so much that, somehow, I manage to hold onto consciousness all through my torture and our subsequent fight, which, unlike the previous battle involving Taralo and the dragon, seems to last ages, every one of my screams enduring for an unnatural amount of time until they all seem to meld into one another, never allowing even one second of silence to seep through.

My head is still full of them when the victor's announcement rings out, and the recap ends quickly after that. Usually they wait a bit, show the tribute's reaction to their winning – but I guess mine isn't exactly one people want to remember.

The anthem begins to play and there's the sound of shifting clothes and moving feet as the audience rises collectively. I know I should be standing to – to ignore Panem's anthem, especially as it plays for the president's entrance, could be considered an enormous crime. But none of my muscles are working, the song barely even audible to my ears, which are still filled with the sound of my screams. My vision darkens dangerously again and I jerk my head up in fear, horrified at the thought of what I might see if I fall asleep.

Awake doesn't seem much better though, as my eyes make direct contact with those of Varlios Strombin. He's beaming down at me, hands gently grabbing my arms and pulling me into a standing position, which I just barely manage to hold. "Ready for your big moment?" he asks, beckoning to a little boy holding a cushion, upon which rests the ornate victor's crown. I barely even register the added weight as the circlet is placed upon my head. Varlios steps back, still smiling. "Ah, you look like a true victor now. Shame about your costume though." His eyes dart to the headless figurine on my shoulder, and before I can react, he's taken my hand in his, almost like a handshake. But the purpose for the gesture becomes clear as he presses something round into my palm. "Maybe I can fix that."

Ice seeps into my veins as I feel the features of whatever he's given me, and despite the fact that I know what it is, I can't stop myself from opening my fingers and staring down in horror.

It's the rat head. Meredith's head.

H-how . . . how did he . . .?

"Smile for the cameras." And he claps me on the back, turning to pose with a grin. But I can't manage one, don't think I ever can again.

Because all I see is _her_.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Isaac's lack of fashion sense is well-known throughout the Capitol. The victor tabloids has published three whole issues on it ;D<strong>_

_**Also, the mentor's collection of oneshots I mentioned earlier should be posted soon! I'm nearly done the first one :)**_

_**Another also, I'm curious to see what you guys think of the president! I've read quite a few SYOTs and there seems to be a bit of a stereotype for presidents, so I tried to make him different. Lemme know what you think :)**_


	52. Every Story Has Its Moral

_**Aaaaand here's part two of that other chapter! This one has a lot more POVs but, surprisingly, is shorter :) So it'll give you guys a bit of a break at least :) Oh, and the first installment in the collection of mentors oneshots has been posted! I'd love to know what everyone thinks :) Also, I'm looking for someone to potentially do a cover for that story, if anyone's interested. I know only one oneshot has been posted, but everyone kinda knows the mentors from that one chapter in this story… I dunno if that's enough to go on to draw a cover, or if the cover should include the mentors at all – I can't really think like an artist :) But if anyone's interested, just lemme know!**_

_**Oh, and also! Everyone should go check out Atashi Desu's incredible SYOT! It promises to be awesome, everyone just definitely go submit tributes :D**_

_**Thank you so much guys! And, as always, enjoy :)**_

* * *

><p>Lilibeth Bersone ran her hands once more down the silk of her black skirt, though the last wrinkle had disappeared ages ago. But she couldn't help it; after all, she wanted to make sure she looked her best for the president of Panem.<p>

She hadn't the foggiest idea why he'd called and asked her to come down to his mansion, but she was hoping – _hoping_ – it had something to do with the success of this year's Games. Admittedly, they'd had some slow points, but overall, the Capitol had adored the fairytale theme. Not only was the Games' popularity ratings up by twenty-seven percent, but a number of companies were profiting as well. Most specifically Capitoys corporation which, in addition to remarketing their old line of storytelling mobiles, had developed numerous, Games-themed dolls, board games and dress-up costumes that were delighting children all around the Capitol. Lilibeth herself had purchased a set of dragon pajamas for her one-year-old son just yesterday, and it made her smile to think that for once, a mutt she'd designed was earning almost as much attention as the tributes themselves.

Shame they'd had to put the beast down. Usually the more interesting mutts were shipped off to Parkton Zoo, to provide more entertainment for the general public as they got to go right up close to the creations, sometimes even watching them participate in trained demonstrations. But the dragon had just been too large and too dangerous to keep in captivity. The rats had become a new exhibit there, though, as had a few of the fairies. Soon the zoo would receive a couple dwarves as well, once they finished constructing a cage that could hold the little terrors.

Yes, everything had gone fantastically well, which was why Lilibeth had such high hopes for her meeting with the president. Varlios Strombin was a huge fan of the Games, and he often took the time to congratulate those in charge of a particularly spectacular year. Having been promoted to her position during the 27th Games, Lilibeth had yet to receive such praise, though he had appeared to enjoy the ones two years ago, with the arena cleverly themed around choices. No, his last big meeting with the Head Gamemaker had been two years before she'd attained her position, back when the eccentric Vasel Gaeves was in charge. Varlios had been pleased with the arena in general, but the mutts were what had specifically drawn his eye.

_Her_ mutts. _Her _design. Something Gaeves had conveniently neglected to mention as he'd received his bonus from the president himself. The man's mistake, however, was thinking he could coast after producing one spectacular set of Games. The 26th had gone down in history as one of the worst to date, and Gaeves was forced into his long overdue retirement.

Lilibeth sighed, her hands finally becoming still across her lap. As much as she would love to walk into the president's office and take all the credit, she knew she couldn't. Having felt the crushing disappointment, the bitter rage as someone else was praised for her idea, she couldn't force Kelwin to endure the same. He was a good man; they had worked closely together, back when she'd been just a regular Gamemaker. Of course, they'd belonged to separate departments, her with the mutts while he'd specified in designing arenas, but they'd both been a part of the "Backseaters," as one of the newer recruits, Zailus, had dubbed them. These were the Gamemakers who worked behind the scenes, creating the mutts, arenas, traps – everything that had to be done before the actual Games commenced. Then those who pressed the buttons and activated their designs, the Controllers, took over. Or "Trolls" – apparently the younger generation was finding it increasingly difficult to pronounce long words, and as such had to resort to shortening _everything_.

Shaking her head at the thought of her employees, Lilibeth remembered how, before these Games had even begun, she'd threatened to fire her entire team if a good theme couldn't be found for the arena. Obviously the one they'd landed on had been a hit, but still, that didn't mean she had to keep _everyone _around. Some of the younger ones could definitely go. Firndil as well – Lilibeth hated how the man just sat around, only opening his mouth to complain or question her judgement. Or both. Ancietoff she could do without too – not so much due to his attitude, but because he'd simply become too old for a Gamemaker's duties. Especially considering how long it took him just to lift a wizened, wrinkled finger to press one of the buttons on his control pad.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the less Gamemakers she could come up with who were truly decent enough to keep their positions. Even more of a reason to let Kelwin share her praise. As one of the only mild-mannered, honest, polite citizens on her team, she most definitely wanted to keep him on her side. Not to mention the fact that he did really deserve it. So yes, she'd just have to let the president know who the real mastermind behind these Games was, even if it did cost her a bonus. Hopefully she'd receive at least some recognition for the dragon.

Suddenly, the big, glass doors that led away from the sitting room flew open, making way for the president's assistant. Lilibeth had only spoken to Charinthy Klutterbox on a few brief occasions, and she would have been happy for it to remain as such. It wasn't that the woman was _bad_, necessarily – but she had a certain air-headed quality that made dealing with her quite a trying task.

Still, she was the president's assistant, and had to be respected as such. Lilibeth stood as the younger woman approached, outstretching her hand. "Ms Klutterbox."

Charinthy didn't shake, merely giggling at the formal title she'd been given. Forcing herself to keep any signs of irritation at bay, Lilibeth brought her arm back to a side. However, as the moments dragged on, the silence grew, only punctuated by a few of Charinthy's chuckles. Eventually, Lilibeth couldn't take it any longer. "Is the president-?"

"Oh, yes, he's ready to see you," the woman interrupted, finally appearing to remember why she'd entered the room in the first place.

The urge to sigh was growing with each passing word Charinthy spoke, yet Lilibeth somehow managed to restrain herself, instead plastering on a wide smile and allowing some of her previous excitement to return. "Excellent."

Charinthy stared at her for a moment, eyes appearing pink due to the tinted spectacles she wore. Then, oddly enough, the woman burst into another fit of giggles before quickly herding Lilibeth out of the room.

* * *

><p><strong>Isaac Lume<strong>

Apparently I drum my fingers when I get nervous, a habit O'Cleon absolutely can't stand. Waiting with me under the stage for Janaff last night must have been the last straw, because when I woke up this morning, he shoved a rubber ball into my hand and told me to fiddle with _that _when I'm anxious.

I really don't think he understands the fact that I am a _victor_. Not a _dog_.

Still, I've kept the ball anyway. Because, as I throw it against the wall before catching it on the rebound for what must be the thirtieth time today, O'Cleon grimaces once more at the dull, repetitive _thunk. _I do believe this bothers him even more than my drumming fingers.

See the appeal of keeping the ball around?

Surprisingly, though, he doesn't mention it. Both of us are occupied with thoughts of Janaff, though I can't tell if O'Cleon is actually worried about him, or just waiting for his opportunity to shout at the boy for his ruined party. All the hard, _backbreaking_ work he put into planning the affair, and the Victor's Banquet ended up just being the Banquet – victor not included.

I knew what would happen the moment I'd watched Varlios walk up to Janaff, whispering something in his ear while performing a very suspicious-looking handshake. But I couldn't manage to reach him, not without drawing more attention to Janaff than he needed. It was only after the president left, when Janaff and the rest of his team were supposed to be making the short walk from the City Circle to the president's mansion, taking the red-carpeted path that had been set out for us, which was lined on either side with screaming Capitol fanatics. After seeing Janaff's reaction to the recaps, I'd figured more screaming wasn't exactly something he was keen on hearing. So I'd managed to arrange for him to take a short, five minute break behind stage before the celebration continued.

Unfortunately, as soon as O'Cleon and I had gotten him away from prying eyes, he couldn't seem to hold his panic in any longer. At which time he'd promptly passed out in our escort's arms.

Needless to say, the general public had been rather disappointed when I'd announced the new victor was "currently unavailable". O'Cleon had taken him back to the Training Centre, but had forced me to go to the Victory Banquet. _"Oh, give them one victor at least, Isaac! If we don't appease them somehow, we will have a raging mob on our hands! Not to mention the president – oh _dear, _what does he think of this? He must be absolutely appalled!"_

He wasn't. I saw him during the party, and I have to admit, I nearly punched him. The fake sympathy when he heard about Janaff's condition, melding quickly back into that knowing smile – actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm annoyed that I only _nearly _punched him. I don't know why I'd bothered restraining myself.

At least today will be better . . . hopefully. No crowds, no Games recaps and – thank god – no president. Just a recorded interview in a sitting room. It'll be fine.

"_I trust you'll keep any mention of your parents' . . . __involvements __to a minimum?"_

I want to ignore them, but unwillingly, Varlios's words pop back into my head. Other than the first day he woke, I haven't spoken to Janaff about the victor's interviews. I probably should have, but it's not like we've had all the time in the world to chat, what with the recaps, him passing out and now being forced to endure another torturous round of makeup preparation with Farenfal and the Terror Trio.

And that's why I'm waiting right outside the door; this time, I'm going to make sure I catch whatever horrendous creation Farenfal's made early, so hopefully, I can save Janaff from having to wear it. I mean, last night, honestly! The stylist knew perfectly well what Janaff was going through – I'd made sure to warn him. And yet he makes _that_. Yeah, great: rats with human faces. And while you're at it, put the one representing Janaff's torturer _right_ next to his head, where it'll haunt the corner of his vision and never be forgotten. _Fantastic._

I jump in my seat as the door finally opens, failing to catch the ball in light of this new development. Instead, it sails by me to hit the ground, rolling past O'Cleon's moving feet as the two of us stand to see Janaff emerge.

I don't manage to see much of him though; the moment I step forward to take a closer look at his outfit – and to make sure there are no signs of Meredith on it – something thin, tall and red with rage steps in my way. "Don't. You. _Dare_."

Farenfal glares down at me and, while he's trying to use the extra four inches he has on me to his advantage, I couldn't find him any less intimidating. "I need to see my tribute," I say, staring daggers right back. "_Move._"

"Oh, no, you're not getting your disgusting little fingers all over this one. It stays intact. And you stay _away_."

"How about instead I-"

"Boys, boys." O'Cleon steps swiftly between us, mimicking the gesture he did just this morning, when I'd walked Janaff to the prep room with the express purpose of making sure something like last night didn't happen again. "Can't you just put this little feud aside? After all, Isaac is only trying to protect his tribute and Farenfal is only trying to protect his creation! You're both very similar."

Both our glares harden in answer – a silent _Yeah, right_.

"And anyways, Isaac, the outfit looks fine," O'Cleon says, taking a peek around Farenfal to see. "So please stop causing unnecessary problems."

Unnecessary problems? Oh yes, making sure someone's clothes don't remind them of the horrors they suffered in the arena and thereby preventing them from melting down or fainting is _definitely_ and unnecessary problem. Nevertheless, I reluctantly step down as O'Cleon manages to coax Farenfal to do the same, allowing me to see Janaff.

It's a simple grey tux. Well, granted, there darker bits forming music notes all across it, and Janaff's tie looks to be designed like a pipe, but that's it. No rats, no murderers sitting on his shoulder. And under O'Cleon's waiting stare, I'm forced to grudgingly admit, "All right – it's fine. I guess." As long as . . . "You all right?" I ask, directly to Janaff.

He nods, though his eyes still look too wide and scared to be normal – but that could just be due to his rather terrifying sleep. He must have stayed awake the first night he was allowed back to our floor, because O'Cleon and I would have definitely heard him otherwise. Like we did last night. Janaff's screams reached my ears no matter what I did to block them out and only served to bring back _my_ nightmares when I finally got about an hour of sleep. I hadn't mentioned it, of course, and surprisingly, neither had O'Cleon – it'd just make Janaff embarrassed, and also turn him even more off sleeping, something I can imagine he's already never wanting to do again.

"Well, of course the outfit's _fine_," Farenfal says derisively, picking at one of Janaff's sleeves in distaste. "It's _boring_. Hideously boring. I was going to go for something more like your costume last year but of course, the oh-so-great Isaac Lume would never have allowed that!"

My costume last year for the final interviews had been a patchwork suit, each piece of material depicting a different death or fight during my Games. It makes me sick just to think of it – thank god he didn't use something similar for Janaff.

"And it would have worked so well too," Farenfal continues to moan, unaware of the fact that _nobody gives a crap_. "With the whole tapestry thing they did this year? I would have been revered as a genius! But alas, _some _people just can't stand to watch others succeed."

O'Cleon steps in before I can respond. "Don't forget, there _are _interviews happening at two." He glances as his watch, eyes widening as he takes in the time. "And we'd better get there now, unless we want to reinforce the reputation 8 has for being the least punctual district in the country."

Taking Janaff by the hand, he quickly leads the boy down the hall, leaving Farenfal and I to follow, exchanging the occasional glare. Still, I can't help the nagging feeling that I should be talking to Janaff, mention at least something about the president's words, ask him what he's planning on doing if the subject of his family comes up. It doesn't dissipate, and I find myself speeding up to grab Janaff's arm, pulling him away from O'Cleon while Farenfal rages in the background, positive I'm about to destroy another one of his "masterpieces."

"Hey, do you . . ." Argh, come on Isaac, this is no time for hesitations and fumbling for words. "Do you, you know . . . know what you're going to say for the interviews?"

As soon as it leaves my mouth, I realise how idiotic it sounds – thankfully, Janaff seems to get it anyways. His wide eyes narrow slightly, glinting with the only feeling that seems capable of chasing away his fear. Anger. At the Capitol. "Yes."

"And, look, I totally agree . . ." It's always been a struggle for me to find words not spoken in hostile tones, but I force myself to push through. "But, you know, just . . . be careful, all right? He's a crazy, evil guy."

Though I haven't mentioned a name, I have a feeling Janaff knows _exactly _who I'm talking about. And surprisingly, that only enhances his determined gaze. "That's why I have to do this."

Finally, O'Cleon seems to have had it with restraining Farenfal, who is going absolutely nuts with me standing this close to his outfit, and the escort walks over to bring Janaff inside the sitting room where the interview will be held. The stylist follows, shooting me another murderous glare that I barely even register, let alone return. "_That's why I have to do this."_ A surge of pride went through me when I heard those words, a happiness that someone was finally brave enough to stand up to Varlios and his Capitol, but as I enter the room as well, watching Janaff try for a shaky smile when he sits with Caesar to begin the interview, I can't help but hear another's voice in my head.

_"The boy's condition is improving so beautifully. I'd hate for him to do something that might ruin his progress."_

_Stop it, _I force myself to think, as Caesar starts to question Janaff about the Games, strategically avoiding the mention of any battles or deaths that might set him off. _What are you, scared of Capitolites now? Jeez, Isaac, get a grip._

But that does nothing to quell the worry resting in the back of my mind – for some reason, I just can't find that same courage I'd had when speaking to Varlios in the hall. I can't deny he makes me nervous, the way he goes about acting all oblivious and nice, only to mention the one thing you're most afraid of.

_"After all, those nightmares can't possibly be good for your brain."_

_"Or you wouldn't have allowed Precious to die."_

What would he do to Janaff if the boy actually says something rebellious on camera for all of Panem to see?

I try to shake the thought away as Caesar gets into the rather touchy subject of the Career breakup. _How did you come up with such a plan? What were you thinking during it? How did you feel when you saw Code and Rhine in the hole?_ _Were you proud of your first kill? _Questions that make me clench my fists nervously, worried how Janaff might take them. Yet he seems . . . fine. Well, fine is a strong word, especially for someone who just one the Hunger Games. But he keeps his face neutral, and even manages to answer the last without a single stammer as he tells Caesar he was rather hoping his first kill wouldn't be one of his actually sane allies. The signs of anxiety are still there – his hands are trembling slightly on the armrests and he takes quite a few deep breaths, as though trying to calm himself – but they're much better than last night. Either he's finally gotten a handle on being a victor . . . or his determination and resentment are pushing him through it. And after only being out of the arena for five days, not to mention his meltdown last night, well, I'm betting it's the latter.

But as the interview progresses, and as much as I hate Capitolites, I have to admit Caesar does his job well. That or someone warned him ahead of time, because as it comes time to discuss the finale, he focuses solely on Janaff's "genius plan with the catapults, there!" before skipping right on ahead to "How did you feel when you won?" No focusing on his torture at Meredith's hands, thank god. The fact reassures me, and I wrongfully decide to relax, right before Caesar's next question.

"So, I guess you're looking forward to heading home! Excited to see your family again?"

I tense immediately, all thoughts of calming down vanishing from my mind. Caesar usually finds a way to segue into the victor's personal life after he's finished discussing the Games and, after having to avoid many of the good arena moments to preserve Janaff's sanity, I can tell he's itching for some juicier answers here. _Which is fine, _I force myself to think. _Janaff knows what he's doing. Come on, Isaac, he's smarter and older than you. It'll be all right._

"More than anything," Janaff replies, and though it's an innocent response, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's just waiting to mention his parents.

I'm not sure whether to be happy or worried when Caesar gives him the opportunity to do just that. "Yes, I'm sure all our viewers remember your lovely grandparents from the final eight interviews! Such sweet people. They've been caring for you since you were three, yes?"

"Since my parents died."

Caesar expression shifts with sympathy and, unlike the president and his facades, the interviewer actually looks genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be." And I can tell, just by the slightest change in Janaff's expression, that it's coming. Whatever he was planning to say, to try and get back at the president, it's coming. "They died by order of the Capitol."

I can see Caesar freeze, his shock at Janaff's words to strong to make a quick recovery. Even still, I can see the gears in his mind whirring away, searching desperately for some way to cover this up. After all, it's his job to make the tributes look good – not to let them appear rebellious on camera. _And dying by the order of the Capitol could mean anything, _I think to myself, trying to reassure the worried part of me while simultaneously glowing with pride at Janaff's words – two emotions I wouldn't have thought possible to feel at once. _They could have been shot for theft or any other offence. Janaff hasn't specifically mentioned they were rebels._

"Well . . ." Caesar appears to be attempting to clean things up – his enormous smile is plastered back on his face, even if his eyes still look unsure. "I'm sure they'd be very proud of you if they were here today. After all, look what you've accomplished!"

Of course he would bring the interview back to the Games, if only to distance it from the subject of Janaff's family. I should have seen the exit strategy coming, and I find myself both relieved and a little bit disappointed that Janaff didn't get to go further. Yes, I want to keep him out of harm's way, especially when that harm could involve Varlios. But someone also needs to show up that faking, pompous, deranged president.

Which Janaff does not a moment later.

"Actually, I don't think they'd be proud of me at all. I mean, they started their rebellion to save lives. I just took them."

* * *

><p>It had been a good day, a very, very good day for Varlios Strombin. His morning sausages had been cooked to absolute <em>perfection<em> – must remember to thank the chef – he'd found five dollars lying on the sidewalk during his morning stroll _and_ Lilibeth had been right on time for their meeting. Right on time! He always admired punctuality, hadn't hesitated to thank her for her consideration. Not that Varlios minded waiting but you know, he appreciated it when he didn't have to.

Unfortunately, the beautiful perfection of this day just couldn't last, something Varlios had sadly realised as he'd dressed that morning – in clothes that had been freshly ironed and were toasty warm no less! But yes, the moment he'd slipped on those cozy, heated pants, he'd realised that the day's good luck just could not last. It never did. And Varlios had frowned nervously that morning, because he knew exactly what was to be broadcast that evening at seven. Of course, the good day could simply be ruined by a stubbed toe, or a pigeon pooping on his car – minor things, always easily overlooked with his cheerful disposition.

But a good day – no, no, a _great_ day, this had definitely been a great day so far – could also be spoiled by something larger, something not as easy to overlook. And that night, though he didn't want to check, desperately didn't want to ruin such a fine evening, he knew that, as president, it was his responsibility. And he liked to think of himself as a responsible person. Well, not _too _responsible, of course. That sounded like boasting. But the general public had voted him into office, so he thought he deserved a _little_ self-praise there.

Ah, but he was distracting himself; there was work to be done, as much as he disliked the idea of doing it. His mansion's basement was relatively plain, though he'd recently begun adding some new décor as per the trends set by this year's Games, but it still contained a television screen, which was all he needed. "Oh, Charinthy, dearest?" He knew his assistant adored when he called her that. "Could you bring up the raw footage from the interview, please?"

The blue-haired woman, who had been waiting in the corner and giggling quietly while he had been conducting his business, quickly hopped to the task. Now, Varlios didn't like to brag, as he'd already mentioned, but it was clear his assistant was madly in love with him. He wasn't being conceited, no, no! It was just rather difficult to assume anything else, what with all the signals Charinthy gave him. She'd even purchased a pair of tinted spectacles, which had become all the rage since young Janaff had won – though he himself didn't need glasses anymore. Varlios supposed the new accessory was meant to please him, but all it did was make it dreadfully obvious that his assistant was too poor to afford eye surgery that would _actually _turn her eyes pink, and instead had bought the spectacles as a way of covering that fact up. Varlios felt sorry for the girl, he truly did. And yet, at the same time, she was so very amusing to watch.

"Will that be all, Mister President Sir?" Charinthy asked as she set up the television, swaying her hips slightly in the hopes of enticing him. Well, it _did _make him smile, though by the way she giggled and blush, she was probably assuming his expression was for an entirely different reason.

"If you'd be so kind as to play the recording, Charinthy."

"Oh, silly me!" The remote had almost conveniently been left on the floor, and as Charinthy bent slowly to retrieve it, giving the president ample time to take in her scantily clad rear. Varlios was a patient man, and of course, he didn't mind waiting – but Charinthy's delay, in contrast to Lilibeth's perfect punctuality, made him sigh slightly.

Finally, after giving her backside quite a few shakes to make sure Varlios witnessed it in all its glory, Charinthy righted herself and pressed a button on the remote. "There you go, Mister President Sir. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment." Varlios kept his response brief as the footage began to play. "Actually, may I have the remote?"

"Of course, Mister President Sir." The delight in her tone was no doubt due to the promise of contact with Varlios. Which did indeed happen, as Charinthy felt the need to take the man's hand with her free one before placing the remote inside, caressing his flesh gently all the while. Once again, it made Varlios grin in amusement, and as Charinthy's seductive smile widened in excitement, he had to mentally reprimand himself. _Varlios, old boy, you shouldn't be leading her on like that! Shame on you, sir, shame on you._

But she was just so entertaining!

_Well, sadly, the time for jokes is passing. _He was quite right, of course. The footage was playing now and he couldn't ignore it. But this wasn't what he wanted – Caesar and the new victor discussing the Games, that had all been aired an hour ago during the official release of the interviews. What he was looking for the editors would have taken out of the final copy. That or it didn't exist – always a possibility, Varlios reminded himself, trying to remain positive.

He pressed the menu button, and the footage stopped, disappearing in lieu of a freeze frame of Caesar and Janaff. Three options were present onscreen: _Official Interview, All Footage _and _Deleted Footage._ Varlios had already watched the actual program when it had aired, and there was no point in going through every second of the recording. So the third one was the obvious choice to pick.

Not much had been deleted from the interview – most was merely made up of moments where poor Janaff seemed on the edge of losing his nerve. Though overall, he'd managed very well; Varlios was highly impressed. The boy's condition really was improving beautifully.

"_Since my parents died."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_You shouldn't be. They died by order of the Capitol."_

"_Well . . . I'm sure they'd be very proud of you if they were here today. After all, look what you've accomplished!"_

"_Actually, I don't think they'd be proud of me at all. I mean, they started their rebellion to save lives. I just took them."_

And it was a shame, such a shame that something might ruin his progress.

"Oh, no, my dear boy," Varlios murmured, pausing the video and staring into Janaff's frozen, determined eyes. "No, no, no. I thought you valued peace. Oh, I thought we'd get along famously!" He shook his head in sadness. "A shame with these young ones, isn't it?" It was a rhetorical question, not directed to anyone in particular, yet Charinthy nodded furiously all the same. "So rash, so reckless." He sighed, glancing back up at the screen. "I know you don't mean to begin a war, Janaff. But something must be done."

"Are you going to punish him?" Charinthy asked excitedly. Despite her airheaded demeanor, she had a surprisingly macabre sense of humour. Usually, Varlios tried to keep meetings with his assistant strictly professional, especially since she attempted quite the opposite – but he had to admit, she was the most entertaining person to watch the Hunger Games with. That and she made the most _heavenly _caramel popcorn.

"What? Oh, no, no, no." Varlios shook his head at his assistant, her plump lips pulling together in what he assumed she thought was a flirtatious pout. "No, he's a poor, traumatised child, bound to lash out." He'd loved to have left it at that, he really would have – after all, he was a man of peace, _peace_. Yet such actions could sadly not go ignored.

"So . . . who's going to get punished, Mister President Sir?" Charinthy asked, bouncing on her heels.

"Well, my dear, whose fault is it that Janaff and his rebellious tendencies live today?"

His assistant frowned, thinking it over. But even though she could be remarkably slow when it came to tasks such as retrieving remotes, it didn't take her long to realise Varlios's plan. And when she did, her giggles echoed around the entire basement.

Varlios smiled, pleased she appreciated the idea. Although Charinthy's opinion could be skewed due to her slight obsession with him . . . so, deciding on the need for a second point of view, he turned to the two Peacekeepers standing at the table behind him. "What about you two? Do you think it will send the right message?"

They both nodded immediately, leading Varlios to believe they hadn't fully understood the question – or just wanted to demonstrate their unquestionable and absolute loyalty. And Varlios appreciated that, he really did! But he valued honesty as well, and sometimes, the two traits just couldn't coexist.

He was about to turn back around, head back upstairs for a nice cup of hot cocoa, perhaps even turn on the television – Stylist Wars was about to play on channel 10. Yet one of the two Peacekeepers stopped him, clearing their throat before getting up the nerve to ask, "Sir? Would you like us to clean up the . . . er, mess?"

Varlios glanced at the table – ooh, yes, now that he thought about it, it was rather unhygienic. And the smell was beginning to grow intolerable. But just as he was nodding absent-mindedly – it had been a long day, and even the president forgot things occasionally – he remembered something that made him freeze. "Wait!" He signalled to Charinthy, who, bless her soul, knew exactly what he wanted and approached, handing over a small, unassuming camera. "Let me take a picture first, if you don't mind." The shutter snapped and the flash blinded both officials momentarily as they glanced nervously at one another. The gesture made Varlios feel bad – oh, shame on him for making the poor, hardworking men upset! – and he tried for a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it's merely for my next tapestry. The Gamemakers have given me access to the technology and, well, it's just such a lovely way to brighten this room up!"

It certainly was, Varlios thought fondly, admiring the latest addition to the basement. Oh, how utterly _drab_ the walls had looked before! But now, thanks to tapestries coming back into fashion, a beautiful work of art adorned the back wall, depicting the cold, still corpse of Summer Myldoo.

The president shook his head slightly, a trickle of sadness washing over his delight at the tapestry. Summer, Summer, Summer – she had truly been a wonderful stylist. But attempting to tip the odds, especially in favour of a tribute like Taralo Hicken, was just inexcusable and, sadly, Varlios had had to act.

Which was also why Lilibeth Bersone was slumped across the table, dried blood crusting around the bullet wound in her temple while more of the sticky substance pooled on the floor.

_Oh yes, this simply will not do, _Varlios thought, stepping back as the Peacekeepers went to work. _Unclean and unhygienic, and what citizen would want an unclean, unhygienic president? No, this must go at once._

After all, he had another meeting tomorrow. And a third tapestry to add to his collection.

* * *

><p><em>Relax. Breathe. No, no, stop rubbing you're hands together, you're making them sweaty. And can you imagine shaking the president's hand with sweaty palms? Oh god, no, that'd be absolutely awful – not to mention embarrassing. Quickly, wipe it off – wait, no, what are you thinking? Now there's a wet stain down your front. <em>Idiot_._

_Great, now you're even more nervous. And sweaty. This is going to be a disaster._

Kelwin sighed, tugging anxiously at the collar of his shirt. He'd attempted dressing to impress, wearing his nicest, light blue top – though now he was wishing he'd picked something a little darker.

His gaze travelled around the waiting room – a _waiting room_! And it was twice the side of his own home's master bedroom. Kelwin wasn't poor for a Capitol citizen, not with a job like his, but he and Verena didn't believe in showing off with a large house or exotic furniture. No, his wife wanted to save the money for the kids' education, and he was happy to go along with that plan.

So of course, he was in no way prepared for the lavish décor of the president's mansion.

God, what was he even _doing_ here? He was a senior Gamemaker, sure, but not head of his department! And certainly nowhere near the Head Gamemaker's level, who, he'd heard, had been called down for a meeting yesterday. After he'd received the same invitation late last night, he'd wanted to ask Lilibeth what he might expect, so he'd tried calling her – first at work, then on her cell, then at home. The only person he'd ended up reaching was her worried husband, who Kelwin had attempted to reassure before guiltily hanging up, promising to help Lokias find his wife after his meeting. But she'd probably turned up by now, hadn't she? Kelwin didn't really know Lilibeth outside of work, yet he was pretty sure she wasn't the type to just disappear and turn up at some pub a day later. Perhaps she'd been at the zoo, overseeing the transport of the new mutts. Yes – yes, that had to be it.

"Kelwin Metoph?"

Kelwin nearly jumped out of his chair as a young woman entered, grinning widely while watching him behind pink spectacles. His anxiety must have shown, because she giggled loudly as he stood, only helping the deterioration of his self-confidence. _Come on, pull it together, _he thought, biting his lip. He couldn't afford to screw up in a meeting with the president. "That's me, Ms . . . uh, Ms . . ." _Shoot! No, no, no, what was her name, what was her name? _He tried to continue smiling at the president's assistant while desperately wracking his brain for memories of seeing the woman on television. _They always announced her name, come on! Charity? Charina? Cha-cha?_

Slowly, his stammered attempts at covering the error petered off into silence, and he winced as the woman continued to stare at him. Wonderful, he'd just made an absolute fool of himself in front of the _president's_ assistant. Oh god, what if he accidentally forgot the president's name when they met?_ Varlios Strombin, _Kelwin repeated furiously to himself, _Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin._

W-wait . . . was that a _giggle_? It was! And coming from the president's assistant no less. Kelwin smiled nervously as she continued to laugh, even attempted a half-hearted chuckle himself – so did this mean . . . she wasn't . . . mad at him? Oh, _thank goodness._ When Kelwin had been ushered in by a few Peacekeepers and told to wait for the assistant, he was expecting someone harsh, severe, unforgiving. This woman was none of those things, a fact that made Kelwin's palms sweat just a little less.

"Oh!" After giggling for what must have been at least five minutes, the woman finally seemed to remember what she was doing there. "The president will see you now."

Nope, never mind – his palms were sweating twice as much. _Keep it together. And remember: Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin._ "Great," he managed to say, although in his ears, it sounded more like a squeak. The assistant must have noticed too, because she giggled as she led him out of the room.

He could feel his nerves beginning to take over though as they made their way up a large spiral staircase, and thought that maybe, if he voiced them aloud, he might feel better. After all, the president's assistant could provide some reassurance – she'd seemed the type after not being angry for his moment of forgetfulness.

"You know, I'm a little nervous about this meeting," he said as they climbed. But when all he got was a fit of giggles in return, his heart sunk, straight into his anxious, churning stomach. At least until:

"You shouldn't be. He's a wonderful man."

Even this reassurance, said in between laughs, managed to help Kelwin, who smiled slightly despite himself. "I'm sure he is."

"A forgiving man."

"Really? Oh, thank goodness, I-"

"A really attractive, _sexy _man."

Kelwin stopped short, staring at the assistant's back until she turned around to look at him, smiling expectantly. "Uh . . . that's . . . good too? I guess."

And he would have been more than happy to let the conversation drop there, absolutely overjoyed if he wasn't forced to hear the assistant's next words. "Yes it is." A shiver of delight ran through her as she giggled. "Yes. It. _Is._"

Her tone as she spoke made Kelwin quite uncomfortable, and he ran a nervous hand through his dark hair, desperate to change the topic of conversation. "Er, so, the president's office . . .?"

"Oh, yes, right through this door." The assistant rapped the oaken frame before heading off the way they came, though as she passed Kelwin she winked and whispered, "_Enjoy_."

On second thought, perhaps a harsh, severe, unforgiving assistant might have been better.

Kelwin leaned against a wall, trying to collect himself. Not easy, especially after that awkward conversation. Plus his previous nerves were coming back to him, overwhelmingly powerful now that he stood right outside the president's door. _It'll be okay, _he thought, trying to reassure himself as he hesitantly knocked on the door. _It will all be okay. Just remember to relax. Breathe. Wipe your palms – oh, it doesn't matter where at this point._

"Come in!"

_Oh, and don't forget: Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin, Varlios Strombin._

Kelwin's shaky hand reached for the doorknob, slowly twisting it as he steeled himself one last time for the meeting. Then the door opened, giving him a magnificent view of the president's lavish office.

But only for a moment. Within seconds, his gaze was obscured as someone stepped right in front of him. Then his hand was grabbed from the doorknob, and suddenly he was caught up in an excited handshake as the man in front of him spoke.

"Mr Metoph! Oh, I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see you! You are a legend, an absolute _legend_. It truly is an honour!"

Kelwin, who had never been alone with the president and therefore hadn't witnessed the full force of the man's cheerful personality, was thrown off. And for some reason, he couldn't get the assistant's last few words out of his head. Bright red hair, a little shorter and rounder, rather intimidating gold and silver eyes – what had that assistant been thinking when-?

"Something wrong, Mr Metoph?"

"No!" Kelwin flushed, embarrassed, as though the president could actually hear his thoughts aloud. Shaking the assistant from his mind and trying frantically to repair his rather loud, unnecessary exclamation, he continued, "Not at all . . . President Strombin."

_Yes. Nailed it._

The president smiled, a warm, fatherly grin that made it hard for Kelwin to believe the man was his age (which meant at least twenty years older than his assistant. Urgh, it was too creepy for Kelwin to contemplate). "Ah, but where are my manners! Come sit, come sit, I want to make sure the genius behind this year's Games is comfortable!"

Kelwin hadn't thought it possible for him to turn any redder, but he could feel even more heat rising to his face at the man's words. "Well, I wouldn't say that . . . I mean, it was a team effort . . ."

"That's not what I heard from Lilibeth." Varlios smiled as he showed Kelwin over to a plush leather chair before relaxing into one of his own. "Said the entire thing was your idea. She thinks quite highly of you."

_More_ blushing! Come on, he was supposed to be a professional! Still, he couldn't help it as the president's words warmed his heart. Lilibeth had really said that? "T-thank you, sir," he managed to stutter out, still a tad overwhelmed. Back when Vasel Gaeves had been in charge, no one but the Head Gamemaker ever received praise. "I'm so glad you liked it."

"Oh, I _adored_ it."

"And, if you don't mind me asking, you wouldn't happen to know where Lilibeth is, would you? Her husband was getting worried the last time I talked to him and I promised I'd help him find her."

The president frowned, concerned. "I'm sorry, I have no idea where she might be! I called her here for a meeting yesterday, perhaps she went to work afterwards? Though I suppose you don't have much to do now," he continued, grinning at Kelwin. "Going to take a nice, well-deserved break, Mr Metoph?"

It was true – after recording the interviews yesterday, the new victor, his mentor and escort had all headed out on a train home. Janaff Skye would be reaching District 8 any moment now and the Gamemakers were officially off the hook until planning for next year began. "Well, a Gamemaker's work is never done," he said, trying for a smile, just as the president lost his own.

"Yes," the man mused quietly, and Kelwin quickly dropped his grin when the president frowned sadly. "And I suppose there's quite a lot of work to be done, considering who won this year's Games."

Varlios Strombin was so nice, so polite and cheerful – yet Kelwin felt his throat go dry at the man's words all the same. "Sir?"

"You saw the interview footage, I presume? All of it?"

While his mouth was parched, his hands were sweating madly, and it took a few nervous swallows before Kelwin managed to squeak out a, "Yes, sir."

"So you heard Janaff Skye's last words?"

This time, he wasn't even sure his voice was audible. "Yes, sir."

Varlios nodded, a distressed frown still present on his lips. "I was warned something like this would happen. The Head Peacekeepers from 8 have been in touch with me since I was elected during the 23rd Games – the very year Janaff Skye's parents attempted their so-called "rebellion". He warned me about the son, but I chose to ignore him." The president sighed. "I do have high hopes for others, always expecting them to take the right path. But as the years went on, the man's worry grew, and finally, I decided to take action." Varlios leaned across his desk and Kelwin had to fight the urge not to gulp noticeably. "Do you remember my visit, shortly before the Games began?"

He did – only now, which made it ten times worse. Otherwise, the day the president made his appearance inside the Gamemakers' control room had been completely forgotten. "Y-yes, sir."

"Now, obviously we don't want to rig things too much – after all, what's the fun of a game if everyone doesn't have the chance to play?" Varlios smiled, but unlike his last one, this gesture did nothing to reassure Kelwin. "But once in a while, the Games to provide an excellent opportunity to . . . _help _with some of the district's more difficult citizens. And during those years, I visit the control room to give the Head Gamemaker a list. A list of those who, sadly, cannot be allowed to emerge from the arena victorious. Did Lilibeth tell you who was on it?"

Kelwin merely nodded; he felt as though his voice had stopped working entirely.

"Taralo Hicken," Varlios began reciting anyways. "For attempting to escape the reapings and disrupting the careful balance of peace District 6 holds. Meredith Blade was also added during the seventh day of the Games, because the Capitol audience isn't partial to a mentally unstable victor." Kelwin tried and failed to repress a shudder – he knew what was coming next, could see it in Varlios's gold and silver gaze as the man leaned closer towards him. "And Janaff Skye. Reaped to avoid the boy's potential at beginning a rebellion. Kelwin, could you please tell me our three finalists for the 37th Games?"

He thought his throat had closed for good, but somehow he managed to stammer out, "Taralo Hicken, Meredith Blade and J-Janaff Skye."

The president's eyebrows tilted in sadness and he nodded. "An unfortunate situation. But I do believe a better solution could have been found. Tell me, Kelwin, who would _you _have allowed to win?"

"S-sir?"

"If you had to pick someone who would best serve to maintain the peace of this great nation, who do you think would do the job best? Don't be shy – it's merely a matter of opinion."

So the man said, but Kelwin had a hunch he'd better not get this wrong. Think, _think_! Obviously Janaff was out of the question – the boy had won and the president clearly wasn't happy with it. But Taralo's parents had defied the Capitol, and Meredith had been absolutely insane. _Come on, just pick one! Fifty/fifty chance you'll get it right! But that's not good enough when facing an upset president!_ "Mr Metoph?"

"T-Taralo Hicken."

It was the first name that came to mind and Kelwin tensed, waiting for the president's reaction. However, whether the man was happy or angry with his choice was impossible to tell – h-he just seemed . . . curious. "Why?"

Why? _Why_? Why had he picked Taralo? _No, calm down, Kelwin, you can do this. _"W-well, because, sir, uh, it was Taralo Hicken's parents who hid him from the Games. It wasn't . . . wasn't the boy's fault. So allowing him to live would show that the Capitol has mercy for those who fall victim to rebels, while also portraying rebels in a negative light. Not to mention Taralo Hicken's timid personality, which could have ensured that he'd do . . . whatever you . . . wanted him to . . ." Kelwin petered off, unnerved by the president's unreadable expression. _No, no, that was wrong! Oh god, oh god, he's going to-_

Smile?

Varlios laughed, eyes twinkling as he reached over to clap Kelwin on the shoulder. "My dear Kelwin, you should have become a politician!"

Was he actually . . . was he actually happy again? Had Kelwin really managed to fix this? "Sir?"

Varlios beamed. "You have a knack for speaking, Mr Metoph. An ability to express your opinion in the best possible way! Taralo Hicken was not my first choice, but even now I'm considering it! You have some very good points, Kelwin, and you explain them beautifully! Still," the president continued, relaxing back in his chair as Kelwin let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, "Would you like to hear my first choice?"

"Y-yes, sir." How could he say no?

"Meredith Blade."

The shock must have been evident on Kelwin's face because Varlios gave a short laugh. "Surprising, isn't it? I know, I know, why her? Especially considering how she got towards the end, she would have been an absolute hassle to deal with after the fact. But do you know the one key thing that separated her from the other two?" Kelwin shook his head, trying to wipe the horror from his face at the idea of Meredith winning. "She _liked_ the Games. No, no, _loved_ them. And such an attitude in a victor would be invaluable. Everyone looks up to victors, respects them either out of fear or admiration. She could have spread her love for the Games throughout the districts, and perhaps then we'd finally achieve our goal of having _everyone_ enjoy the event." Varlios sighed heavily, as if this utopia had become forever out of reach. "But alas, Lilibeth made the wrong choice."

Something about these words unnerved Kelwin, and though all he wanted to do was remain quiet, he felt the need to defend his boss. "W-well, I'm sure she didn't mean to. I mean, she just wanted to give the Capitol a finale that wasn't outshone by any trap or mutt we threw into the mix. She wanted it to be all them."

Varlios smiled at Kelwin, yet his eyes seemed almost . . . sad. "Such loyalty to your boss! I respect that, I truly do. But Kelwin, you don't need to worry about her anymore."

The words had the exact opposite of their intended effect. Kelwin felt a chill in his heart, as though it had frozen solid by the president's voice. "P-pardon, sir?"

Varlios sighed. "I'm terribly sorry, dear Kelwin, terribly, terribly sorry. But I must confess, I have not been straight with you. I do know where Lilibeth Bersone is, and I'm sad to say her husband shall not be seeing her anytime soon."

_W-what_? Kelwin's eyes widened, all traces of colour draining from his face. The president couldn't . . . he hadn't meant . . . _no_. "It's such a shame," Varlios continued, distress written all over his features as he took in Kelwin's horrified expression. "Peace is a pure and beautiful thing, yet only with death can it be sustained. I was hoping just one sacrifice would do, but it appears more are required, after the words I heard yesterday."

Words? W-what words? S-surely not . . .

"_That's not what I heard from Lilibeth. Said the entire thing was your idea."_

Oh god. Oh god, the president thought . . . did he think . . . no, he just came up with the theme! And the man was discussing . . . discussing _murder_. He had _murdered_ Lilibeth. And then called Kelwin down for a meeting. No, no! He should run, fling his chair at the president and sprint away from the man, yet his body felt frozen to the seat, eyes unable to tear themselves away from the man's gold and silver stare, mouth dropping open in unspoken horror. "Kelwin? You seem surprised. Have you guessed what I'm about to tell you? If you have, it shouldn't come as such a shock. You may not have been head of any department, but the way Lilibeth went on, you might as well have been her right hand man."

The president smiled, but this time, it didn't seem reassuring or fatherly or kind – no, all Kelwin could see was a monster, a murderer, staring at him with hungry eyes and waiting to pounce. Varlios began to lean across the desk and Kelwin tried to retreat, but it was pointless, futile and oh god, was this it? What about his kids, what about his wife, what about every innocent Capitolite who knew nothing of this killer ruling them, nothing of this man clapping one hand on Kelwin's shoulder while the other slowly reached into his desk drawer.

"Kelwin Metoph, as the man responsible for this year's Games, you will hang . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye<strong>

_Home._

I can't believe it. We're going _home_.

It doesn't matter that Isaac and O'Cleon are bickering yet again, doesn't matter that the cameras are still with us, doesn't matter that I'm operating once more on no sleep – we're heading back to District 8. No, more than that – we're practically _there_. Five more minutes before the houses come into view, according to O'Cleon, who's suddenly chosen to ignore a now fuming Isaac. I have no idea what they were fighting over, but honestly, I don't care. _Home. _My grandparents. The comforting, musty smell of old books in the library. My cozy little bedroom in the attic, with an ever-present stack of novels beside it. I think I knocked it over in my rush to get dressed for the reapings – would it still be like that? Funny to think my room has remained so unchanged, while its occupant returns anything but.

_But that's fine, _I think to myself, and for the first time since I left the arena, the fear is easy to push away. Because I'm going to go home, I'm going to heal and get better and I'm going to be _fine_. Fine. A word that seemed so unreachable, so impossible until I got on the train yesterday. Now, it seems like it might actually be an attainable goal.

"Ah, there it is now." O'Cleon's words register a moment after I see it, the roofs of various textile factories coming to view. My nose is already pressed against the windows of the train, as close to the approaching district as I can get, yet I find myself wishing I could break through the separating glass and run the rest of the distance. My heart certainly feels like it's going to burst out of my chest and do just that. But it won't need to, because the train is slowing, slowing, and now we're pulling into 8's station and it's really happening, it's really happening, I'm _home_.

The only thing restraining me from running straight out the doors is O'Cleon's hand on my shoulder, though I can tell he senses my eagerness – heck, I think I'm actually _vibrating, _I'm so happy. "Remember, you have to stand up front and wave for a bit. Your grandparents will be off to the side and the cameras will film your reunion after."

If anything, his words only heighten my exciting, and I can barely sit still as we move from train to car. The car that will drive us straight to the square. Where all of District 8 will be to watch my arrival. For a moment, the thought makes me nervous – after my rather traumatic experience during the Games recap, I've become somewhat apprehensive towards large crowds of people. But these aren't crazy Capitolites – these are Eighters, people I've grown up with, people I know well. And my grandparents. The thought of them just makes all the fear and pain disappear. Oh god, I can't wait to be back in their arms.

I'm so caught up in my excitement, I barely notice Isaac, who had an angry glare directed at O'Cleon before his eyes began to dart out the window. His brow was already furrowed in fury, but it begins rise as we continue to pass through the familiar streets of 8. Oh, my _home_. "Where is everybody?"

Somehow, his words manage to register through my cloud of happiness, and a vague memory of this time last year floats through my mind. My grandfather always preferred a quieter, more secluded atmosphere in lieu of large crowds, so instead of congregating at the square, my grandparents and I had chosen to line the streets, where less citizens were around to watch as the car carrying Isaac drove past. District 8 is one of the smallest districts in Panem, only beat by 3 and 12, but even still, our whole population can't fit into the one square. So, as Isaac said, where is everyone?

However, I can't find it in myself to care for long. It doesn't matter that no one is around here, there will certainly be others by the square at then, _then_ I'll get to see my grandparents. And, despite O'Cleon's words, I highly doubt I'll be able to restrain myself from jumping immediately into their arms and sobbing in relief.

The smatterings of houses give way to more orderly lines of shops, and I get a little jolt of excitement each time we pass a sign I recognise. _Talleny's Tonics, _two hundred metres from the square. _Three Little Bakers, _one hundred metres. _Meck and Son's Fresh Produce, _fifty.

And we're here. The car is slowing, the car is _stopping _and I'm so excited I can't bear it, my hand shooting out to shove the door open even as Isaac's cautious "Hold on . . ." reaches my ears, even as a small, logical part of my own mind shouts out in warning. But I ignore it, ignore everything because the need to see my grandparents is too strong. With their arms around me, I know I'll really be home. Really be _safe_. And I won't have to endure sleepless nights or terrifying flashbacks or panic attacks alone ever again.

I practically leap out of the car, Isaac and O'Cleon hurriedly unclipping their seatbelts to follow me. Into the absolutely empty square. No, no – not absolutely empty. There's a group of people to one side, standing right across from me, and though we're about a twenty metres away, I know immediately who the two in the middle are. Grandma and Grandpa. T-they're _here_. I knew they would be, but for some reason it just didn't seem real until this moment. It still feels like a dream, a beautiful, beautiful dream as I take one slow step, and then another and then I'm running, running as fast as I can towards them with tears of joy obscuring my vision but I'm not embarrassed, it doesn't matter because my grandparents! Here, here and real, ready to receive me with open arms and hug me and tell me they love me and never, never let anything hurt me again. I know I sound like a child, seven, not seventeen, but I can't help it. I honestly never thought I'd get to see them again. And yet, here they are.

My beautiful dream lasts for all of two seconds before someone melts out of the shadows of the square and grabs me, halting me mid-run and forcing me to watch as, ahead, my grandparents are shoved to the ground by the people around them. No, not just people. Peacekeepers. And they're pulling out . . . they're pulling out . . .

_No. No, no, no, this can't be happening, no, no! Wait, those are my grandparents, wait, PLEASE! I'm supposed to go home with them, live with them, STOP! I haven't even hugged them, held them tightly in their arms, told them I loved them – oh god, no, NO!_

My scream echoes all around the square, mingling with the sound of two synchronised gunshots and, just like that, my life becomes a nightmare once more.

* * *

><p>". . . this badge upon your shirt to represent your new position as Head Gamemaker!"<p>

W-w-what?

_What?_

"What?"

Varlios smiled, placing the small, diamond-shaped pin in Kelwin's hand. "Hang this badge on your shirt! To represent your new job. Seeing as you were responsible for this year's marvellous Games theme." When Kelwin stared back at him in utter shock, the president patted his hand comfortingly. "All a bit much to take in, yes? I understand how you feel, believe me. But you should be excited! I'm promoting you!"

"Wha- . . . me?" Kelwin shook his head, trying to get his brain back on track. A few moments ago, he had been positive the president was about to murder him for his involvement in this year's Games – for allowing Janaff Skye to live. But he was . . . he was . . . being promoted? "S-sir, I don't understand. What about Lilibeth, a-and the words you said you heard yesterday, and-"

"My business with Lilibeth concluded the moment I filled her position and promoted you, Mr Metoph." The president frowned confused. "And the words I heard . . . ah, you mean Janaff Skye's little rebel moment during his interview? I assure you, the Head Peacekeeper from 8 is having that taken care of as we speak! I don't believe we shall have to worry about the boy endangering this country's peace much longer." Varlios smiled, but the happy expression disappeared as Kelwin's remained one of shock. "Oh, you didn't . . . no, Kelwin, you didn't believe I was threatening to, to . . ." Varlios whispered the next word, as though he was so turned off by the thought that he could barely speak it aloud. "_Kill _you. Was that honestly what you were thinking?" The president sat back in his chair and Kelwin, who still hadn't overcome his initial shock at the fact that he was still alive, grew even more stunned as he realised how distressed the man in front of him now looked.

"Sir? Are- . . . are you all right?"

"Oh, you must think I'm an absolute monster! Murdering Lilibeth! How terrible a man I must seem, how unfit to be a president! You must believe I go around killing innocents in my spare time, that you were about to become my next victim!"

"N-no, sir, not at all!" Actually, that was exactly Kelwin's line of thinking, but the president just looked so distraught, almost about to cry and what was he supposed to say? "Of course I didn't . . . well, I mean, you did . . . did you really k-kill Lilibeth?"

Varlios looked him in the eyes and Kelwin felt a small bolt of shame pierce his fear. How could he have ever thought that gaze to be intimidating. It looked so tragic now . . . and he was the cause. "You have to understand, Kelwin, it was all in the interest of saving the Capitol! Lilibeth was a rogue Gamemaker, a rebel, trying to use young Janaff as a pawn to overthrow me and take the power for herself!"

"L-Lilibeth? That doesn't . . . no, she couldn't have-"

"Only a certain type of person can hold power," Varlios said sadly. "Only a certain type can resist the maddening call of greed. You, I can tell, are that type. But Lilibeth, well, I knew I'd given her too much, the day I promoted her to Head Gamamaker, and I could tell in that moment that she'd soon seek more. But I never thought she'd do something this drastic!"

Kelwin stared at the president, not even bothering to hide his shock. Lilibeth? A _rebel_? No, no, not her. She had a husband, a son, a job she loved! And she'd never seemed power-crazy. Just doing her duty. The mishap with Janaff was a mistake, a complete accident – wasn't it? Yes, of course it was. There was no way _Lilibeth _would-

"I can see your determination to stand up for her," Varlios said, clasping one of Kelwin's hands in his own. "And I admire your loyalty – it's such a beautiful, sadly rare trait to see in one of your position. But you have to understand, people like Lilibeth take advantage of such kindness, exploit citizens like you for all you're worth. She twisted your idea to work in her favour, and I can see you're just as much a victim as I am. My only hope was to prevent anyone else from suffering at her hands."

Suffering . . . he hadn't suffered, had he? No, Lilibeth had been a good boss – strict at times, sure, but a better leader than Vaesel Gaeves had ever been. And she hadn't exploited him . . . but then, would he really know if she had. _Of course you would, _Kelwin scolded himself. _She was a good person and a fair Head Gamemaker. She wouldn't do anything like this._

But then, why would Varlios be telling him this? Could it be a lie? No, not from the leader of Panem. And he sounded so sincere as well, so apologetic, he _must_ have felt bad for her death. Which meant he was telling the truth.

But could Lilibeth really have been a rebel?

The president smiled sadly, watching Kelwin fight to decide on the truth. "I can see this is all a bit much process, and I am so sorry for that. It's been a trying day for me, but that's no excuse to take it out on you. Is there anything that might help? Tea? Biscuits? A warm towel?"

"No, no thank you," Kelwin managed to say, a tad absent-mindedly. _See?_ part of his mind shouted. _Would a merciless killer offer you tea? No! He's just a kind man trying to preserve this city's peace!_

_But you knew Lilibeth, _another part spoke up. _And everything he's said . . . that doesn't sound like Lilibeth._

Gah, it was all too confusing, he just couldn't understand it!

"Tell you what," the president said, taking in Kelwin's still shell-shocked expression. "I'll have my chauffeur take you home. What you need now is some rest – especially after you've worked so hard during the Games!" Varlios rose from his seat and, unconsciously, Kelwin followed suit. "And you need time to think this over." He reached for the side of his desk, where a multitude of buttons lay spread across a control panel. Varlios pressed one, and seconds later, his assistant was striding eagerly into the office, looking a bit too reminiscent of a dog wishing to please its master. "Charinthy, could you please escort Mr Metoph to my limo? Tell Burbus to take him home."

The woman nodded rapidly, grabbing one of Kelwin's arms as he neglected to move on his own. Everything was just, just happening so _fast_. And he was caught in the middle of a war between the word of his president, and memories of a boss he'd never thought of as corrupt. He just . . . just couldn't figure anything out. "Oh, and Kelwin?"

Charinthy stopped immediately at the sound of the president's voice, causing Kelwin to nearly walk into her – he was so distracted with his own thoughts, he'd barely registered the fact that they'd begun to move towards the door. But now he was turning back, and the president's sympathetic face came into view once more. "I was just, ah, hoping you would keep everything mentioned here today to yourself." His eyes saddened once more as he placed a hand over his heart. "What you've heard are the burdens of a weary leader, and while I regret forcing this hardship on you, I know you wouldn't want to trouble others with it, yes? I know you're the type who puts the wellbeing of other people first."

"Y-yes, of course." Kelwin, then realising it sounded like he was arrogantly agreeing to the president's last statement, quickly tried to correct himself. "I mean, yes, I won't tell others."

Varlios beamed, a smile emitting such genuine gratefulness that Kelwin felt bad for ever thinking of the president as a liar. "Thank you, Mr Metoph. I'm sure you'll do well in your new position."

New position . . . Kelwin couldn't even think about it right now, about the honour of being promoted to the prestigious role as Head Gamemaker. His head was too full of everything else – Lilibeth's death, her potential betrayal and rebellious nature, the president's words, the fact that he was so sure he'd nearly died . . . no, no, he just wanted to get home, perhaps have a hot shower to drown out his thoughts. He was beginning to get a headache from all this uncertainty, and all thinking of Lilibeth did was create a mixture of feelings that he could barely sort out. Should he be sad about her death? Yes, of course . . . but apparently, she was a rebel. So . . . happy? No, no, not happy about death. Angry? Guilty? Worried? Neutral?

Oh, it was just too much. No, you know what? He wasn't going to think about it. He was just going to walk out those doors, into the president's car, and go _home_. Oh, that sounded so nice right now.

And thanks to Kelwin's rapid departure, he didn't catch sight of the president's growing grin._ Excellent job, old boy, _Varlios thought to himself as Charinthy and the new Head Gamemaker disappeared, leaving him alone in his office once more. _Wonderful acting. _But not _too _wonderful, mind – Varlios didn't want to sound as though he was boasting.

However, he was thoroughly pleased with Kelwin's levels of confusion; the man would be so undecided on the truth, he'd never tell others what the president had said. All Varlios had to do now was fabricate a few computer files as proof of Lilibeth's "misdeeds", and the Head Gamemaker would remain entirely loyal to him. And he did value loyalty, didn't he? Such a beautiful trait, second only to naivety – and how absolutely wonderful it was that Kelwin possessed copious amounts of both.

Sadly, their meeting had run a little overtime – _District Savage Meets Capitol_ would be halfway through the latest episode now, and everybody knew it was no fun to start watching at this point. But not to worry! Varlios could think of something more entertaining to watch than one of the Capitol's most renowned TV shows. More entertaining than _District Savage Meets Capitol? _Why, there couldn't be such a thing! Yet, shockingly, there _was_.

Varlios clicked on the nearby TV, pressing a few buttons so that it streamed live footage of District 8, watching as the rebellious spark he'd worried about was extinguished so _very_, very nicely.

* * *

><p><strong>Isaac Lume<strong>

For a moment, I'm frozen in absolute horror. Even my mind is paralysed, unable to berate myself for not registering something was wrong, not warning Janaff when I saw the empty streets. I just, I didn't . . . couldn't have imagined anything this, this . . . monstrous.

My shock lasts for a second longer. Then like I'm emerging from underwater, all the sound returns to my ears. My mind's still a bit stunned, and it takes a moment for me to realise what the piercing noise ringing through my head is. Then my gaze moves from the bloody, still pair of bodies to the screaming, sobbing boy held by a man I can recognise easily as the Head Peacekeeper.

_Janaff._ My stomach twists sickeningly as I finally understand who just got shot. Oh god, I thought I recognised them. From the interview. They just murdered his _grandparents._

After my Games, I told myself I never wanted to feel scared or horrified again. But anger is quite similar to fear and that, I'm all right dealing with. So it only takes another moment for my pale, shocked face to flood with colour, my open mouth snapping shut instantly as I start sprinting towards the Head Peacekeeper, ignoring O'Cleon's call of warning.

"What the _hell _do you think you're doing?!" My words sound weak, worthless, unable to convey the absolute horridness of the situation and I hate it, I _hate it. _It's just not enough, not with my blood boiling, rage roaring in my ears. How could they . . . how dare they . . . I haven't seen Janaff genuinely smile since I met him. Today on the train, that all changed. And they took that relief, that happiness away from him, that _family _away from him. His _family._ He'll never hear them whisper their love, or pat him on the back, or hug him ever again. _No._

Seeing as mere words aren't enough, I shoot my hand out and grab the Head Peacekeeper's arm, trying to forcibly wrench him away from Janaff. The man's name is Driyick Vernt, and I thought, after all our little "meetings", that I couldn't hate him anymore. Apparently I can.

"Let. Him. _Go_," I practically snarl, trying get as close to the man's face as I can despite our height difference. Surprisingly, Vernt complies – only to use his free hands to shove me away.

"Mr Lume, do not make me charge you with the assault of a Peacekeeper." Vernt steady grey eyes bore into me, his face set and collected while my expression is anything but.

"Assault? _Assault_?! You just _murdered _two innocent people! What's the punishment for _that_?!"

Vernt meets my furious glare evenly, but I can see something harden in his eyes. "We have our orders."

"You're _sick_!" I shout, as the other Peacekeepers begin to group around Vernt. Maybe it's supposed to intimidate me, but at this point, I don't freaking care. "How could you do something like this? You're a _puppet_! A murderous, merciless puppet who does what he's told because he's too stupid to-"

Vernt's mouth tightens in anger and he steps forward, only for us both to be cut off as someone steps between us. "Isaac, that's _enough_."

I blink, almost surprised to find O'Cleon standing before me. But the shock isn't nearly enough to block out my rage. "No, no it's _not,_ because this bastard-"

"I know." Something in his tone stops me short, and I stop glaring at Vernt to actually look at my escort, stunned to find his own orange eyes alight with anger. "And if you say anything, there will be consequences. Go take care of Janaff." And with those surprising words, he whirls around, putting on his shrillest voice as he turns on Vernt. "_I, _on the other hand, am a Capitol citizen, and far above you district scum. So, no one touches me unless you want to be the next corpse bleeding out in the square." He takes a deep breath, and suddenly the most furious, screechy, incredible rant I've ever heard burst forth from his lips. "_What did you imbeciles think you were doing?! Those were a victor's family members, a _victor's! _That boy is more important to the country than you will ever be, how dare you monsters . . ."_

He continues to go on and amidst the anger, I feel an emotion so strange, so unexpected, it takes me a moment to place it. Is that . . . is that . . . _pride_? For my _escort_? I never thought I'd say that.

But I don't have time to sort out my feelings – as a sob reaches my ears, over the sounds of O'Cleon's lecture, I remember that, as much as I'd love to tackle Vernt to the ground, Janaff needs my help more. He's kneeling a short ways away from the group of Peacekeepers, absolutely frozen save the continuous sobs that wrack his body as he stares in horror at the bodies lying abandoned by the side of the square.

"Janaff." The moment I see him, all my anger vanishes, and I'm left with feelings of sadness and utmost shame. I can't believe I jumped to arguing with Vernt, I'm supposed to be taking _care_ of my tribute. Quickly, I head over to him, but once I reach his side, the sobs even more evident at this proximity, I don't know what to say. What _can_ I say? His grandparents were just . . . they were just . . . "Janaff, I'm so sorry."

I don't think he even hears me. His whole body is shaking rapidly, breathing coming in such rapid gasps that I start to worry he'll pass out again. But what can I do? I just . . . I can't imagine how he's feeling right now.

An excuse that sounds pathetic in my head. I didn't warn him enough about the president and his interviews, didn't do all I could to protect him – the thought that Varlios might hurt Janaff's family hadn't even crossed my mind. I guess because it isn't exactly an option for me if I'm feeling rebellious. But I can't stop thinking that this is my fault, all my fault, and even if crying makes me uncomfortable, even if I have no idea what to do, I force myself to put an arm around Janaff's trembling shoulders, trying to be as comforting as I can while knowing it's absolutely no replacement for the two people Janaff just lost. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Let's get him out of here." I look up to see O'Cleon standing over us, his mouth still held in a tight grimace. "Off to Victor's Village, come on."

With our escort's return, a bit of anger has come back as I remember the ruthless Peacekeepers who murdered these people. "What about _them_?"

The venom in my voice is obvious, leaving no question as to whom I'm referring. But O'Cleon just sighs. "Nothing we can do. They're acting on orders from the president."

_The president. _Fury courses through my veins at the words, even though I'd known from the moment it happened that Varlios had to be behind this. That _monster_. Acting so nice and cheerful and sympathetic, all while murdering whoever gets in his way, he's _sick_.

_"The boy's condition is improving so beautifully. I'd hate for him to do something that might ruin his progress."_

Sick, sick, _sick _creep who thinks he has the right to murder innocent citizens, to destroy others, to take away _parents_ . . .

Anger fills my ears once more, but it's not quite enough to block out Vernt's voice, who, after watching us for a short while, now turns back to his comrades, who are beginning to clean away the bodies, earning another harrowing sob from Janaff. "Wait," he says curtly, a look in his eyes that I'd call disgust if the monster was capable of feeling anything. He withdraws a small camera from his pocket, a Capitol design rarely seen in District 8, and to my horror, snaps a photo of Janaff's dead grandparents. "President's orders."

That's it. That's it, that's it, that's _it_. I can't even think anymore, can't process anything except the sadistic, twisted being that stands a few feet from me. No, I'm not going to let him hurt anyone else. This is the. Last. _Straw_.

O'Cleon shouts a warning, but I don't hear it as someone roars in fury. Maybe it's me. Probably, because the sound causes everyone's eyes to land on me right before I stand and run, barrelling into the Head Peacekeeper and sending my fist straight into his jaw.

* * *

><p>"So, how was the meeting?"<p>

Kelwin winced as his wife appeared in the hallway. He still hadn't sorted everything out, even on the long ride back to his house, and by the time he'd reached the front door, he'd decided he didn't want to think anymore about what had just happened. Put it right out of his mind, that's exactly what he was going to do. But apparently his wife had other plans.

Verena's brow furrowed as Kelwin smiled, and he had a feeling it was due to how weak the gesture seemed. "Something wrong?"

"No, no – no, no. I'm just, uh, tired."

His wife crossed her arms, giving him what he often called "The Look". "Are you trying to insult my intelligence?"

He sighed, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Nothing ever got past Verena. That, or he was a terrible liar. His wife often said it was both. "It was just a bit . . . overwhelming, that's all."

"How so?"

_How so? _Well, first off, the president's assistant had, in the most awkward fashion, tried to convince him the president was attractive. _Then_, he'd found out the president had had Lilibeth killed. _Then_, he'd thought he was about to die. _Then, _he'd been promoted. And _then_, he'd been told one of his closest co-workers was a rebel, and had been forced to choose between the word of a man who ruled peacefully and the word of a dead woman who he'd thought he'd known well.

But he couldn't tell his wife most of that, especially after promising the president. He needed something, though, as an excuse. "Well, I, uh . . ." he petered off, his hand slipping into his pocket and finding the Head Gamemaker's badge, which he'd hidden away because it pained him too much to look at it. Now, though, it might provide an excellent excuse. "I was promoted."

"Promoted?" Verena seemed almost confused at first, but her eyes widened the moment he brought out the badge. "That's . . . oh, honey!"

He staggered as she threw herself into his arms. "Just like you wanted," she said excitedly, hugging him close. "You must be so happy!"

It was true – Kelwin used to dream of the day he became Head Gamemaker, where he knew he would go down as a legend, the best to ever hold the position. But that was when he was young, stupid – he'd held his position in the arena department for quite some time, and had rather grown fond of it. Not to mention knowing how the last Head Gamemaker had ended up. _Oh god_. His heart sank, a flicker of worry disrupting his features. He couldn't . . . could he end up like that?

"Honey?" Verena had drawn back, and was watching him once more, concern etched all over her face. "Are you sure you're all right?"

No, no he was not – but he couldn't burden his wife with the knowledge. "Fine, dear," he said, managing a grin that he hoped was more convincing than the last. "Just a little shocked, you know."

She smiled. "Well, you shouldn't be. Goodness knows you've been waiting for this long enough." A sudden idea seemed to hit her, and her face lit up. "Oh, wait 'til the kids here!"

"Where are the kids?" Usually Breccan and Annora were the first to the door when he came home.

"Field trip, remember? The school always takes them to the arena soon after the Games end. They're trying a sleepover for the first time this year though, and I almost didn't let the kids go."

"I'm sure they'll be fine," Kelwin said. Yes, it was so much easier reassuring others than dealing with his own worries. "The teachers take good care of them." Try as he might, even the thought of his children couldn't get distract him entirely from his earlier meeting, so he changed their conversation to the only topic he knew might help. "Does that mean we have the house to ourselves?"

Verena's lips curved upwards into a smile that told Kelwin she knew exactly what he meant. "Mm, I guess we do."

She leaned in close and their lips met, Kelwin trying to lose himself and, more importantly, his thoughts on earlier today. But, just as he was positive they were disappearing, his wife broke the kiss off and brought them all back with her next words, "Oh, but first, you have to call Lokias. He must have called three times during the day, wondering if you'd heard anything about Lilibeth."

Kelwin's stomach twisted. "Sure," he said weakly. Thankfully Verena didn't hear the anxiety in his tone, to busy leaning close to whisper in his ear.

"I'll be waiting in our room."

She drew back and smiled before heading off down the hall, but all of Kelwin's excitement had drained away. Lokias . . . what was he supposed to tell Lilibeth's husband? Especially after he'd just been promoted to her position – good god, what kind of message did that send? Oh, this Head Gamemaker thing was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.

Especially considering Lilibeth's fate. Kelwin shuddered as he made his way into the kitchen to grab the phone. _You'll be fine, _he tried to reassure himself, while at the same time trying to come up with a suitable lie for Lilibeth's husband. _The president is nice, said he only made sacrifices to keep the peace. So just stay peaceful, make sure good tributes win and you'll be fine._

Yet somehow, the words couldn't convince him. And he knew he'd have to start watching his back.

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye<strong>

This can't be real. Please, _please_. It just can't be.

O'Cleon sighs as he lies Isaac down on the nearest couch, shaking his head and grumbling, "More trouble than he's worth." But there's also a softness in his gaze as he makes sure the boy is comfortable. It's almost a fatherly gesture. Like the one my grandfather often wears.

_Wore_.

No, no, no . . .

"We should probably call a doctor," O'Cleon continues as he turns from Isaac's unconscious form to me. "How are you feeling."

Destroyed. Devastated. Shattered beyond repair. Unwillingly, more tears spring to my eyes and I look away from O'Cleon, though by now, it's pointless. Everyone would have heard my sobs in the square.

The square. My grandparents. Corpses in the street, shot through the head and bleeding out onto the ground, no, no, why, why, WHY?

O'Cleon's arms wrap around me as I melt down completely, letting the sobs overwhelm my body once more. Why would they do this? Why would they s-s-sho- . . . _no_. They are my grandparents! _Were _my grandparents. Were . . . no . . .

The escort pats me on the back, and though I know he's trying to be reassuring, it only makes me cry more, because this wasn't supposed to be him, this was supposed to be my grandmother and grandfather, hugging me and comforting me and telling me everything would be all right. I could see it so clearly in my head – how could the Peacekeepers . . . the president just, just take it away?

Because of me. Because of my words during into the interview. It's a-all my fault, I _killed _them. I-I thought I was done killing when I got out of the arena, but I wasn't and now my grandparents are _dead_. How could I d-do that to them? How c-could I think t-the president would just let me, l-let me get away w-with everything. _I should have known!_ B-But I was t-too stupid and now they're, now they're . . .

"There, there, it's all right." I barely register O'Cleon as he leads me over to another couch, sitting me down and offering me one of the hankies he always carries with him. "Just let it out, don't worry, here, have another tissue."

Before, I was embarrassed to show any signs of fear or sadness to anyone. I just can't seem to care now, and the sobs only grow deeper as my mind continues to come back to _them_, _them_ – d-dead. I don't know how I managed to follow O'Cleon to Isaac's house in Victor's Village in my distress.

I couldn't really pay attention to my surroundings back in the square, not with their bodies splayed out in front of me, so old and frail and empty. But I did hear Isaac, did see him run to hit the Head Peacekeeper. The man hadn't been expecting it, and as his head had snapped back from the force, I felt the tiniest trickle of vicious happiness, if only for a moment. He was in charge of seeing that my grandparents were shot, and even _taken a picture_ of it. And a part of me, a tiny, tiny part that wasn't occupied with sobbing, was cheering Isaac on as he reared back for another hit.

Unfortunately, the other Peacekeepers had jumped into action by then, and one kicked the back of his legs while another swung their baton into his stomach, bringing him to his knees while another two grabbed his arms.

The Head Peacekeeper had stood over him, rubbing his jaw and frowning down at the boy held before him. "I told you not to make me charge you with assault of a Peacekeeper. There are consequences."

"Oh yeah?" Isaac had shouted back. "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

O'Cleon had run over to the Head Peacekeeper, madly tugging on his arm and saying something I couldn't hear. But I did see the Head Peacekeeper almost hesitate, then shove O'Cleon away and withdraw his baton from his belt. I'd looked away for the rest, not wishing to see any more pain, any more blood – but then my eyes had landed on my grandparents and the sobs had started all over again.

The memory makes me want to cry harder, but I'm shocked to find that my tears are barely flowing anymore. No, no, this isn't right! They were my grandparents, I should never stop feeling sad at their deaths – am I that much of a monster already? _Of course you are, _a bitter part of my mind thinks, _after all, it was _you _who killed them._

"There, there," O'Cleon repeats as I choke out another sob. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay long, I must catch the train out of here." He glances from me to Isaac's broken and bloody form and sighs. "Though I'll call on the doctor before I leave – I don't know much about injuries but I don't believe arms are supposed to bend that way." O'Cleon sighs, but his weary expression quickly becomes angry and his grip tightens on my shoulder. "Those bloody _Peacekeepers_. I swear, somehow, I'm going to get those men fired. This was no way, absolutely no way to treat victors! Beating one and killing the grand- . . ." But he stops himself short as he catches sight of me, another sob escaping my lips at the thought of what just happened. "Anyways, I'll go find the doctor. Janaff?" His tone is softer than I've heard it, and it makes me almost feel embarrassed to think he has to treat me so delicately. "Could you give me directions to District 8's doctor?"

I don't say anything for a moment, too busy trying to compose myself. Part of me thinks I should just cry and cry and cry, because my grandparents deserve to be mourned every moment they're gone. But another part, a selfish part, the same part that urged me to speak rebelliously during the interview, is feeling ashamed that I've broken down once more in front of others.

Slowly, I manage a nod, and after O'Cleon rifles around to find a pen and paper, my shaky hand writes out the directions to get to Telma, the district's best doctor. It doesn't even feel like I'm the one doing this, though – as if I'm far away, watching someone else hand the tear-stained page to O'Cleon, hearing his reassurances and watching his worried glance at the two of us before reluctantly leaving. He asked me to stay, though, even though this is Isaac's house. "I don't think he should be left alone in his condition." That's fine, fine because I couldn't imagine heading into my own new home. Not without my g-g-grand- . . .

Another sob comes, but with it, a different emotion, one I feel strongly every time I think of the Head Peacekeeper. No, not him: the president. Varlios Strombin took everything away from me when he ordered my grandparents to their deaths. And inwardly, I know I'm looking to blame him because thinking about myself as the cause makes me sick, but it doesn't matter. This was as much his fault as it was mine. And he won't grieve, he won't mourn – no, I'll bet he's _happy_.

And despite the tears still flowing, my jaw tightens, mouth forming a hard grimace as all thoughts of hating the Capitol, of rebelling against them flow back to me. _Don't, _the scared, traumatised part of me thinks. _That's what k-k-killed your grandparents in the first place! Please, please don't let that happen again._

Varlios m-murdered my grandparents, l-leaving me with n-nothing.

Nothing to lose.

So now, he'd better start watching his back.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Varlios just looooooves screwing with people's minds :) And who says the dying stops when the Games do?<strong>_

_**Anyways, hope everyone liked the chapter! Well, maybe liked isn't the best word for this kind of chapter… I dunno, you all know what I mean :) I'd love to hear what you thought, especially of the Capitol POVs! Lilibeth, Varlios and Kelwin all have very different personalities, so I hope that came across in their pieces. It was certainly fun to try and write :) I hope the switching back and forth between first person present and third person past wasn't too jarring – I just started writing Capitol POVs differently like that and figured I might as well not stop now.**_

_**Anyways, thanks for reading!**_


	53. Home is Where the Heart Is

_**All right, so here it is! Surprisingly not the longest chapter in the story like I'd figured, but it's pretty close :) Anyways, this chapter was partly written to tie up some loose ends, give you a glimpse of how lives continue after tributes have died. They're in chronological order, but it jumps quite a bit of time towards the end. Just try not to think about it too much.**_

_**Now, a long chapter dserves a long A/N :) Sorry guys, I know these take up your time and that most people probably just skip 'em. But I just wanted to take the time to thank everyone who submitted me tributes for this story. Only one can win, but I couldn't have done this without twenty-four and I'm so incredibly grateful to everyone. So I'm gonna thank you all now - and here's where I get sappy :)**_

_**Thank you to lastsacrifice, who gave me Emerald Marsh - she was such a great tribute, and young, which I needed, and I'm so sorry I didn't do more with her. **_

_**Thanks to Thomas J. Flynn, who gave me Ram Underhill - his outlook on life was so unique, he was an awesome variation on your typical District 3 tribute. **_

_**Thanks to Team Glimmer, who gave me Sparkie Jesfer, Carlisle McAwny and Code Schuyler - all three of these characters were so amazing, with Sparkie's sense of adventure and Carlisle's different state of mind, and of course there would be no incredible/awkward Code/Rhine friendship without Code :) **_

_**Thanks to Zeiddo, who gave me Devera - seriously one of the most fun to write, with her obsession with finding a boyfriend, she was so great :D **_

_**Thanks to Patricia, who gave me Bree Hudson - she was such a strong female character with a tragic history and I just absolutely loved writing her. **_

_**Thanks to meganlucindaxo, who gave me Precious - another strong girl who I know was definitely a favourite for some people. **_

_**Thanks to Phantasia515 for Noah James - he and Malia formed the most adorable friendship alliance, and his urge to protect others was so sweet. T**_

_**hanks to natural disaster for Cordelia Schylla - a cheerful Career, she was so unique and of course, I adored writing her interactions with Rhine :) **_

_**Thanks to FinnickSugarCube for Malia Endal - another part of the adorable alliance, her death was one of the saddest for me to write, she was so wonderfully normal that everything about her was genuine. **_

_**Thanks to xx-TwistedFantasy-xx for Rhine Carson - as you probably know, she ended up being a lot of people's favourite character, including mine and without her, the story just wouldn't have been the same.**_

_**Thanks to booksandmusic97 for Imogen Torrini and Perrin Bellerose - both of these characters were so incredible with their devotion to family and the incredible amount of detail and work you put into their forms**_

_**Thanks to Theonechance for Rowan Hollows and Taralo Hicken - a true villain and a true hero :D But seriously, this story would not have been the same without either of them, they provided so many opportunities for great plots and they were such characters, it was amazing**_

_**Thanks to Soundhawk for Lore Fury - hands down one of the most fun to write, him and Devera :) He provided such great comic relief, yet he was a hero in the end and gah, he was just beautiful**_

_**Thanks to TrudiCanavanlover for Dylian Carte - also amazingly fun to write along with Lore and Devera, Dylian too could be hilarious in some moments while having all the awesome fight scenes as well. He was epic :)**_

_**Thanks to Elnur for Achilles Atromitos - another incredible tribute devoted to family, but not only was he a great hero, you also provided me with Zeus and this whole opportunity for a potential rebellion, without which the story would have just been any old Hunger Games**_

_**Thanks to BasketBall23 for Catherine Street - a twelve-year-old, which I'd desperately needed! Not to mention the fact that she was the most epic twelve-year-old ever :)**_

_**Thanks to Penmysword for Calican Sareamer - he changed a lot throughout the Games and provided excellent opportunities for character development, not to mention the fact that his backstory was so unique**_

_**Thanks to Moonlight Kit for Gwen Watkins - she was such a strong tribute, and she balanced Lore and Taralo so well, it made their alliance ten times better and more hilarious. Also, without her, Rowan would have had no purpose in life :)**_

_**Thanks to mrslukecastellan for Meredith Blade - I honestly could not have asked for a better villain. She was so beautifully evil, and I don't even want to think about what the story would have been like without her. Every story needs an antagonist, and she was just perfect :)**_

_**And of course, thank you to DryBonesKing for Janaff Skye - without him, the story would have ended VERY differently. Not to mention how awesome his history is, and his rebellious that may totally tie into the sequel . . . :)**_

_**So yes, thank you to everyone! I'd also love to thank everyone who reviews by name, as a whole bunch of you never submitted tributes, and yet have stayed with this story and reviewed faithfully, which is absolutely incredible! Unfortunately, I can't name you all by name, but you all know who you are and YOU ROCK! :D**_

_**Anyways, that's much too long for this author's note, so I'll discuss the rest at the bottom of this chapter. For now, thank you and enjoy!**_

* * *

><p><strong>Kelvin Underhill, Ram's Brother<strong>

It's a school night. Not only that, but I have a huge exam tomorrow in my Tech class.

Yet instead of sitting at home studying, I'm here. Writing, not studying. And, oddly enough, I'm one hundred percent all right with it.

District 3 is not one for grief. Having realised that, with only one victor in the past thirty-six (well, thirty-seven now, I guess) years of Games, the odds will never be in our favour, we've learned to accept the inevitable deaths of our two tributes when it comes. Oh, we mourn, of course, but not for long. After all, people die all the time in factory accidents – why should the Hunger Games be treated any different?

Is that why I feel so guilty then? For trying to write my brother's death off as nothing more than as an unimportant event, one that could not be avoided. I thought it'd be easier to think of that way, especially as I'd gone to say my goodbyes.

"_Aw, come on, Kel, don't look so sad. I'm going to the Capitol! The Capitol, Kel! Do you have any idea how much fun that's going to be?"_

Ram may have been my age, but unlike me, he'd never been able to truly process the consequences of the Games. Even when he was in them. During the bloodbath, nearly killing the boy from 5 – my brother still hadn't realised exactly what death meant, or I highly doubt he would have leapt so quickly to killing. He treats life like one of those video games we're forced to design for the Capitol's entertainment, but they're not the same, they're _not_. In life, death is much more final. In life, there's no restart button.

I'd tried explaining that to my brother, over and over. But I don't think he really got it until that knife landed in his back. I was in school, but of course, for an event as important as the bloodbath, all classes were suspended, us students forced into the tiny auditorium to watch. And on the big screen, I watched as the life drained out of my brother's eyes. But before that, they clouded with understanding. Ram finally knew what death really meant. And it scared him. That much was clear to me, though now I try hard not to think about it. Try not to think of my optimistic, happy-go-lucky brother spent the last few seconds of his life terrified.

"What are you doing here?"

The nasally, high-pitched voice jerks me from my thoughts, and I look up from my paper to see a girl staring down at me. Blonde hair, blue eyes, couldn't be more than fourteen . . .

Ah.

"I _said_, what are you doing here? Freak." The last insult is tagged on in an unsure tone, and it makes me raise an eyebrow at the girl I now know to be Shimmer Jesfer. She looks almost identical to her sister Glimmer but, being a twin myself, I find them relatively easy to tell apart. You just have to look at the details – the slightly darker hair colour, the freckle on her chin. But the biggest telling sign is the fact that she's here, while her sister wouldn't ever have come.

"Writing, Shimmer." The girl narrows her eyes at the fact that I know her name, but she must remember me. The day our school watched the bloodbath, me, her and her sister were all escorted outside afterwards, given the rest of the afternoon off to mourn our losses. Ram and Sparkie's funerals were also held together, a sad tradition that's begun to spring up in District 3 every time our tributes both die in the bloodbath. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing." But I notice the slight shifting of her hand as she hides something – flowers? – behind her back, the quick glance towards her sister's gravestone. Maybe she knows I notice, because she quickly tries to change the subject. "Anyways, writing? Writing what?" She lets out an unconvincing laugh. "That's stupid."

I'd thought so too, at first. Writing stories had always been a passion of mine, but I'd quickly given up on it. Very few district citizens became published authors – that sort of frivolous career is left to the Capitol. But ever since I first came here, to District 3's graveyard, first sat under this tree right across from Ram's grave, I decided I wanted to take writing up again. I hadn't known why, hadn't even been certain what I wanted to write – until I put a pen to paper and the words flowed.

"It's a fantasy story," I tell her, ignoring the snort of disapproval. I know these gestures are merely an attempt to keep up her façade of rude indifference, her attempt at appearing "cool", and while I won't call her out on it, I won't acknowledge it as genuine either. "About an immortal boy who could never grow up. And a young princess, who just wanted to have an adventure."

That last line has an immediate effect on her – contemptuous expression drops, eyes widen and hands begin to fidget nervously with the flowers behind her back. "Princess?"

"Yes. There were three, actually. Only two of them were step-sisters, who hated the third princess and always teased her and-"

"Hey!"

I raise an eyebrow. "They're just characters."

"I'm not stupid," Shimmer replies, glaring at me. But then, surprisingly, the anger drops, replaced by an overwhelming guilt washing over her features as she looks away. "And we didn't hate her." The line is mumbled, barely audible, yet I hear it all the same. I don't respond, though – Shimmer seems to have almost forgotten I'm present, and I don't want to ruin her moment as she takes a few hesitant steps over to her sister's grave, carefully placing the flowers on top. "Sorry, Sparkie," she whispers. "Again."

It's only then that I notice the myriad of other blossoms littering the area around her. The oldest ones look like they've been there for almost two weeks; she's been doing this since the bloodbath occurred.

I look back down at my page as she lifts her head, feeling like I shouldn't be watching this rather emotional moment. _Synonym for kind-hearted, I need a synonym for kind-hearted._ But I can't focus on my story, not until Shimmer leaves. And I haven't heard footsteps . . . is she still-?

I glance up, only to come face to face with the young girl, who's staring at me intently. "How does it end?"

"What?"

"Your story. How does it end?"

"Uh . . ." The sudden interest in my novel throws me off, but I try quickly to get my thoughts back on track. "I actually haven't written it yet. Just, ah, just getting to that part now."

Shimmer nods to herself for a moment, then plops herself right down beside me. I give her a look and she replies with, "I'm gonna stay. Gotta make sure you don't screw it up."

Something about these words just cause my lips to twitch upwards. A smile – the first I've worn since Ram died. "All right." I hand her my latest page, careful not to smudge the still-drying ink. "So, the immortal boy and the princess are just about to do battle with a vengeful pair of forest spirits. How do you think it should go?"

She looks it over for a few moments, then hands it back to me. "I don't care." But as I raise my pen to paper once more, I do hear her sigh, and whisper, "Just make sure it ends with "happily ever after"."

* * *

><p><strong>Molly Blu, Precious's Sister<strong>

She's later than usual. Even with the pouring rain, I have a clear view of my sister's house from my hiding spot in a nearby alley. The lights are on – her husband, Greph, got home about half an hour ago. But Erica's still not back.

_And why should you care? _I think bitterly, pulling my worn, ragged coat further around my thin shoulders. _Not like she ever cared about you._

No, no she didn't. Precious was the only one who ever cared. She loved me and protected me, and she'd promised that when she finally hit eighteen and was able to leave our father behind, she'd take me with her. Not like Erica. Erica _abandoned _us.

B-but now Precious . . . Precious is . . .

_Stop it!_ I try to blink back the tears forming in my eyes, but nothing can help the lump in my throat. Precious promised me during the goodbyes that she'd win and come home and then we'd be able to move out right away, to Victor's Village, where we'd never have to worry about our father ever again. But that girl . . . that girl _killed _her. Malia Endal, District 12's female tribute, s-shoved my sister over a c-cliff. I'll never get to see her again.

The thought comes just as Precious comes walking down the street. No, no, I can't fool myself into thinking it's my sister. Or at least, my favourite sister. Erica is related to me as well, but no matter how similar her black ringlets are to Precious's or her big, brown eyes, she'll never, _ever_ be able to replace Precious. Never in a million years.

I don't know why I'm staying outside her house, then. When Precious first left, I forced myself to stay at home, to put up with Father, now with no older sister to protect me. But I could handle it, could get through anything knowing Precious would be home soon. Even when he nearly broke my back pushing me down the flight of stairs in our house, I stayed.

And then . . . and then Precious died.

I'd run off in shock, at first, trying to distance myself from the TV screen and that horrible, horrible image of her body smashing into the rocks. But once I'd reached the edge of District 8 and some sense had returned to my mind, I'd realised that I couldn't go back. So I started living on the streets. It was hard, though, and made me cold and starving. And lonely. Then, five days after I'd left home, I'd happened to see Mr Skye walking down the street. The gentle, old man who ran the library was always nice to me, and I'd started to get desperate at that point. So I'd followed him home, hoping he might be able to give me a good meal at least and even a place to stay at best. But before I'd gotten up the courage (and squashed my pride) to knock on his door and beg, I'd peeked through the window to see him and his wife staring in horror at their TV. Janaff was onscreen – in all my sadness for Precious, I'd completely forgotten he'd been reaped as well. I couldn't hear anything through the window, but I could see him grimacing and gasping, all while the girl from 4 carved her name into his leg. Janaff Skye, the kind, quiet boy who had always been there to help me find a book in the library, was about to die.

So I'd left again, not wanting to witness another murder or force myself onto Mr and Mrs Skye when they were going through such a tough point in their life. Later though, listening in on the gossip of the other street rats, I'd heard that Janaff had, in fact, survived, and my hope and rekindled. But I hadn't gone back to the library – he was still at risk, and his grandparents didn't need more stress.

Until he won. Being on the streets, I usually heard information about the Games a day or two later, but everyone had been out to celebrate another District 8 victory that day. And I told myself, once Janaff got home, I'd wait for a few days, and then go see him and his family. They'd be living in a new house in Victor's Village – surely they could spare some food, at least. The thought of begging repulsed me, but, as always, my stomach's growls drowned it out.

But my plan was never put into action. The day Janaff was supposed to return home, the district was forced into lockdown. No one was allowed on the streets, and I was forced to take cover in an abandoned textiles factory with some of the other homeless in order to avoid being shot by the sudden influx of Peacekeepers patrolling our roads. Lockdown only lasted a day, and once it was over, most people didn't think much of it. I was one of those people, until I'd snuck over to Janaff's new home and realised exactly what had happened while we'd all been stuck inside.

He was alone in the living room and sobbing. I'd never seen Janaff cry, but I knew that if he ever did, his grandparents would be by his side immediately to comfort him. But they weren't. I had heard a rumour that two people had been shot during lockdown . . .

The trauma of more people I knew dying had come back and I'd fled again, heading right back to the edge of the district with half a mind to find a way through the fence and run as far as I could from District 8. But, unlike before, the border was now guarded, and I'd earned a painful whack across my back by a Peacekeeper's baton for getting too close to the edge. It seemed like no matter where I went, pain and death always followed.

I guess I really had nowhere else to go, but I don't know why I've come to hide near Erica's house. At first, I was looking for some sign that she too mourned my sister, _our _sister. But I never saw one, and it only served to reinforce the fact that Erica is cold and heartless. Yet, I've stayed.

"I know you're out there."

I narrow my eyes as my sister's words carry through the cacophony of rain. Instead of immediately going inside her house like usual, she's stopped by the front door, looking out at the road beyond. Who is she talking to?

"Molly, come on, I know you're listening."

Me? She means me? _What do you know, she's actually talking to you for once in your life, _the little, cynical voice in the back of my mind mutters, and the attitude stays with me as I cross my arms and reluctantly slouch out from the alley.

Erica gasps when she sees me, and makes a rapid hand gesture, as though trying to get me to move. "Molly, come inside! You're going to catch a cold!"

"How did you know I was there?"

"Look, we'll talk inside, just-"

"I'm not going anywhere with _you_, Erica." I swear she almost flinches at my tone, but she deserves it. "How did you know?"

She looks at me, and while I haven't made any move to come inside, I'm still close enough to hear her weary sigh. "Greph saw you yesterday coming home."

"Of course you weren't even the one to notice."

A small bit of her worry seems to disappear, and with it, I can see more of normal Erica coming back. Normal, bossy, superior Erica. "And what exactly is _that_ supposed to mean?"

What does it mean?! "_What does it mean?!_ You _never_ cared about anyone, _ever_! You never bothered with me and Precious, you left us as soon as you could! You didn't care that you were leaving us with Dad, you just wanted to save your own skin! You never came back, never checked up on us _once _and even when Precious . . . even when Precious . . ." I shake my head as the image of my dead sister's body comes back to mind, furious with myself for starting to cry in front of Erica. "She's _dead_! She got reaped and she's gone and she's _dead_! And you. Don't. _Care_!"

I try to force the sobs from my throat, but I'm positive Erica can hear them anyways. Still, I try for the biggest glare I can muster, hoping it lets her know what a terrible, _terrible_ sister she is. But the scowl doesn't last long on my face once I realise she's crying too.

"I did care," she whispers, and it's so quiet over the rain that I can barely hear it. "I _did_. And I went to see her, after you left, for the goodbyes." She looks me straight in the eye and for a moment, I feel as though I'm really looking back at Precious. She and Erica had the same eyes, but my eldest sister's gaze was never this soft and emotional. Only Precious shared her thoughts with me – Erica remained aloof for the eleven years I knew her before she moved out. "I told her . . . I told her I was so sorry for everything that had happened. She didn't . . . of course she couldn't forgive me. But she felt better when I promised I'd take care of your, if she . . . if she d-didn't make it back."

I stare, absolutely stunned and my oldest sister. Did she really . . . no, she couldn't have. "Precious said she would win," I snap, using anger to try and cover my uncertainty. "She wouldn't have needed your dumb promise. And I don't need it either."

"But Molly . . . she didn't win." Erica has never sounded so sorry in her life, yet I open my mouth to start yelling again all the same. But even as my glare returns, no words come. I want to tell her that she's a horrible sister, that she can't just write Precious off like that – but it's . . . it's true. And as much as I'd like to, I-I just can't argue with it. "And everyone needs a backup plan. I've been to Dad's house every day since she passed, hoping you'd come back so I could take you to my home. Molly, please . . ." Erica's voice breaks and she falters, the sadness in her voice dulling my scowl. "Please, just . . . let me make it up to you."

I don't want to say yes – not after she abandoned me and Precious. But the thought of a warm bed, hot meal and, well, just someone who might actually love me again stops me from denying her offer. I need time to think, and in order to gain that, I change the conversation to the first topic I can come up with. "What's in the box?"

She's had it under her arm this whole time, doing her best to shield it from the pouring rain. It's a small, white thing, and I can't imagine what it holds. Too small for clothes and too big for jewellery. But then she cracks it open, and as I take a step closer to look, my jaw drops.

Four years ago, I suffered through one of my worst reapings. Not even my first one of eligibility – no, I was only ten. But Precious was twelve, and I'd been so, so positive she'd get reaped. The thought had terrified me like no other, and I had cried all the way to the square. Precious had tried desperately to cheer me up, knowing that for the first time, I'd have to stand with my father in the crowd of onlookers, with no sister by my side. And he wouldn't take kindly to a child of his, especially a child of ten, sobbing like a baby.

Fortunately, Ilna Tempouri had noticed us and felt bad. She and her two sisters run the bakery by the square and I guess we sort of reminded them of themselves, when they were younger. So she'd given us a tiny, beautifully decorated strawberry shortcake to share. I'd never tasted anything so good in my life, and had instantly declared it to be my favourite food ever, all worries of the reapings vanishing immediately as each little piece of cake melted in my mouth. But usually, such a treat is incredibly expensive, so I'd resigned myself to never tasting it again.

Now, though, I'm faced with an identical tart, nestled tightly in its white container. A drop of rain splashes down on some of the pink icing and without thinking, I take the box and close it, not wanting any moisture to ruin a pastry so rare and delicious. But then my eyes find Erica's, glancing sadly down at me, and I can't help but feel a small pang of guilt. The reaping I was so worried about Precious, Erica had been seventeen. She had still been eligible, and yet, I hadn't given her a second thought. I never had.

"Erica Blu," I say, wiping my runny nose on my sleeve while my other hand clenches the box tightly. "Were you planning on bribing me with food?"

Erica smiles slightly. "Like I said, I'd heard you'd be here." She opens the door, and light spills out onto the dark steps, along with smells of roasted chicken and the faint sounds of music. I'd heard Erica's husband enjoyed fiddling. "So . . . would you like to come in?"

I take a moment, my eyes darting from the warm, welcoming home, to the hopeful gaze of my sister. Not Precious – not like I'd wanted. But maybe I want Erica too.

And without further hesitation, I take her hand, allowing her to gently lead me into the house.

* * *

><p><strong>Pawsley Endal, Malia's Brother<strong>

"Hey, Paws, up for a game in the Meadow?"

"Project due tomorrow, I am _screwed_."

"Dude, the baker's giving away some of his stale stuff, you have _got _to get down there!"

"Hi Pawsley."

"Hey!"

"What's up?"

I grin and wave at everyone who addresses me as I walk through the Seam, even though it's all a bit overwhelming. I mean, I never minded all the greetings and stuff before, but after Malia . . . well, I still like to be alone sometimes.

But I can't let anyone else know that. Practically everyone in the Seam knows me as cheery, happy-go-lucky Pawsley, and that's how they treat me. After Malia was reaped, though, that all changed. Everyone was always sad around me, smiles quickly disappearing when I walked by, lively conversations quickly dying off into murmurs of, "I'm so sorry about your sister," or "Are you feeling all right?" And it only got worse after she . . . died.

That's when I decided it had to stop. I mean, part of me still feels numb and cold when I come home from school each day to an empty house, setting the table for three instead of four. But it's not fair to make other people feel the same way, not when I know most of them are just relieved they have a whole year before they have to worry about themselves and their siblings again. And I feel as though I should be angry because of that, but I just can't bring myself to be – maybe because, in past years, I've felt the same way.

It's been two weeks since Malia . . . er, passed, and everyone's practically back to treating me normal. Which is nice, if a little hard – I know if I drop my smile at all, people will automatically go back to treating me like I'm fragile, like I could break down and cry at any moment. So the grin has to stay, even if, in my heart, it feels like the last thing I want to do.

At times like this, usually I'd hide in my bedroom, or go somewhere along the edges of the district, where I could be alone. But I just can't do that today – not yet. I've got something to do first, something I've been putting off since Malia came home to us, a little note crumpled up in her pocket. I hadn't been the one to retrieve it – as ashamed as I am to say it, looking at her like that, with her lips curved upwards in a small smile that almost mocks her cold, dead state, made me want to throw up. But Dad got it, and because he and Mom work so long in the mines, he gave it to me to deliver.

_Gabriel. _That's all that was written on the outside of the letter. But I knew exactly who it was meant for. Gabriel James, younger brother of Malia's district partner. I had seen him shove a note in her pocket, right before he was incinerated by that, that d-dragon. That had been terrifying, and absolutely painful to watch, especially with my sister so distraught afterwards.

I shake my head, trying to clear it of the mental images that threaten to overwhelm my vision. Noah James, burning to a crisp.

"Afternoon, Pawsley."

And Malia, Malia stuck in that boy's trap, s-stabbed by that rock.

"Hi!"

_Smile, _I tell myself, waving first to Mr Myner, then Asha Simmons. _Just keep smiling._

Luckily, the frequent greetings begin to peter off as I near the edges of the Seam, although now my own reluctance is holding me back. I mean, sure, I've been in this area of town before – District 12 is so small, we only need one school and I have to pass through here to reach it. But I've always been surrounded by a group of my friends, of people the same class as me. Alone, this richer territory seems hostile and unfamiliar, every person I see walking down the street throwing, not a few friendly words, but a suspicious stare as I continue along my path. _What is a Seam brat doing here? Looking for handouts? Ugh, disgusting beggars._

It's unpleasant, but I force myself to push through. I've been putting this off long enough, partly because of the area I had to walk through and partly because of how much it reminds me of Malia's death. She might have held this note in her very hands, touched it before she . . . died. That never gets any easier to say.

My feet are automatically taking me on the customary route to school, and I nearly miss the turn I have to take to get to the James' house. I've been only once before, to offer our condolences when Noah died. It's usually something only friends of the suffering family do, but usually, the other tribute's relatives come as well. Because we're the only ones who really know what they're going through.

Thankfully, they don't live far off the main road, and before I know it, I'm standing right outside their door. Or maybe that's a bad thing . . . I can feel myself getting nervous just staring up at the mid-sized, wooden house. The James' aren't rich, not by a long shot, but in District 12, the average wealth is dirt poor. This family's house alone is at least two and a half times bigger than ours.

_But you have to do this, _I think to myself, setting my jaw firmly. Noah James allied with my sister to protect her, volunteered to fight a Career and saved her from the dragon. _You have to do this, Pawsley. For him._

So, determination overriding my anxiety, I reach out and knock on the door.

It's all quiet out here, but I can hear scuffling coming from inside the house as someone scrambles to get to the door. And, taking a deep breath, I steel myself once more, trying to prepare myself for addressing those far beyond my class.

"Hi, Mr and Mrs James. I don't know if you remember me . . ."

"Ah, Mr and Mrs James! Home early I see . . ."

Both my voice and that of the mysterious speaker stop short as the door opens fully, allowing us both to see that neither of us are Mr and Mrs James. Instead, I'm facing a short, balding man with a long, curved nose, while he stares at-

"A Seam brat?" His gaze narrows immediately. "Shoo! Go on, get out of here! No begging!"

I can feel a small spark of indignation at his words, but I force it down. "I'm not here to beg, sir – I have a delivery for the Jameses. May I come-?"

"Ha, I wasn't born yesterday, boy! What could they possibly need from the Seam? There's no way I'm letting you into this house just so you can steal a bunch of trinkets!"

Part of me just wants to leave, maybe come back some other time, but I don't know when I'll be able to get up the courage to do this again. No, I have to deliver the letter _now_. "I'm not here to steal, I'm here to give them something. Please, can't I just leave it somewhere? Or give it to you, and you could . . ."

He smacks my hand away as I offer up the letter, grimy after spending days in the arena. "I don't _think _so."

"But it's from their son."

"Oh, _really_? Mr and Mrs James' seven-year-old, bedridden son wrote a note, ran to the Seam, gave it to you and then ran back here without my noticing?" The man rolls his eyes and flicks his fingers in my direction. "Now, I said, shoo!"

It takes me a moment to realise which son he was referring to, and when I do, I shake my head. "No, sir, this is from Noah James."

The effect is instantaneous, although it's not the one I'd wanted. Instead of morphing in understanding, the man's face twists in rage, and he glares so furiously down at me that I nearly flinch. "How. _Dare_. You? Using a family's tragic loss to try and get into their home and steal their things? Selfish, rotten brat!" He raises his hand, and this time I do flinch as he prepares to hit me.

But something, or rather, someone stays his hand. "Dr Mandeller?"

It's a young voice, weak and childish, and the doctor jumps before turning, just as I lean around him to see a little boy standing in the hall, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Who's at the door?"

"Gabriel, you should be in bed!" Completely ignoring me, the doctor rushes over, just as Gabriel lets out a deep, wracking cough. "Come on, back to your room, your parents didn't hire me to sit around and-"

"Hi Pawsley!"

The younger James son, who had been about to follow the doctor's orders, just caught sight of me in the doorway, and now he's waving wildly, as though we're best friends. I give him a hesitant smile back, silently scolding myself for feeling so nervous around this kid. When I came with my parents to offer our condolences, they went to talk with Mr and Mrs James, leaving me to entertain Gabriel. The boy has some sort of sickness, and every time he coughed, I'd nearly jump out of my skin. The Jameses are rich enough to hire a doctor if they catch an illness, but in the Seam, even a common cold can be deadly, seeing as barely anyone can afford treatment. Gabriel would be fine, getting the medicine he needed – if I caught that sickness, I'd be dead.

Still, Gabriel being here gives me the opportunity I need to drop off a note. "Hey Gabriel. I have something for you here. From, ah, from your brother."

His grin disappears immediately at the mention of Noah, but he nears me all the same, ducking around the doctor's outstretched arm and ignoring cries of "Mr Gabriel, don't, he's _filthy_!" The little boy doesn't ask any questions, merely taking the letter as I hand it to him and opening it. Silence fills the house, and even the doctor has the good sense not to interrupt Gabriel while he reads – if he's reading. In the Seam, our education starts when we go to school, and even then, some people barely learn basic skills – after all, if we're going to be spending the rest of our lives mining coal, what's the point? But I've heard the richer families teach their children a lot sooner, and Gabriel seems to have no problem. Until, "What's ah . . . ah-u-ree . . . ah-u-ree-vo . . ."

"Let me see." The doctor's tone grows surprisingly gentle when he's not talking to a "Seam brat", and Gabriel allows him to take the letter. However, even the man frowns as he analyses the word. "Ah . . . au . . . I'm sorry Gabriel, I've never seen this before. Could your brother have made it up? Ah-re . . . Aure . . ."

"_Aurevoir,_" I whisper, and that's when it clicks. "Could I maybe see it?"

Dr Mandeller glares at me over the letter, but Gabriel nods and takes it from him, handing it to me instead. Yep – I may be fourteen and still slower at reading, but there's no mistaking that second last word. _Aurevoir_. And something warm lights up inside me, a glow I haven't felt since my sister died. Malia – who else could have written it? It's even in her handwriting, unlike the rest of the letter. And this time, my lips twitch upwards into a smile I don't have to force. It feels almost as though I just got a little piece of my sister back."

"Aurevoir," I say, to Gabriel and the doctor. "It's French. It's used in place of goodbye, but it translates directly to "until we meet again". Because no one's ever gone forever."

I can feel my throat close up slightly at the words, but the strange thing is, it's because I don't feel sad anymore. And I don't think Gabriel does either, as he takes the letter from me, holding it almost reverently as he stares at the second last word. "_Aurevoir_," he whispers.

_Until we meet again._

* * *

><p><strong>Damon McAwny, Carlisle's brother<strong>

The bedside table goes flying, crashing into the wall next to me and breaking down into millions of pieces. It's exactly what I feel like I'm doing inside. "Dad!" I shout, and this time, there's no keeping the sob from my voice. "Dad, stop!"

Either he doesn't hear me, or he doesn't care – his fruitless search continues as he tears our bedroom apart. Well, my bedroom, now. Carlisle is g-gone. Because of me. All because of me.

And Dad just doesn't understand.

"Dad!" I step forward, wrapping my hands around his arm and trying to pull him away from the mattress he's now tearing apart. "Dad, stop, he's _gone!_ He's gone and he's not coming back and-"

He gives and incoherent shout and swings his arm, throwing me into the back wall. More tears sting my eyes as I struggle back to my feet, but just as I do, he's there in front of me, grabbing my throat and putting his red face inches from mine. "Where is he?" he shouts, and the rancid smell of beer on his breath makes me want to gag. "_Where're you hiding him_?"

"N-nowhere," I manage to choke out, even as his grip constricts around my neck. "D-Dad, he's gone, h-he's _d-d-dead_."

"NO!" My father roars and rears back, releasing one hand's grip on me so he can swing it straight into my cheek. Pain erupts across my face and I cry out, but of course, he doesn't care. He never did.

About me, at least. I guess he must have cared for Carlisle, because ever since we watched him die in the bloodbath, Dad's gone crazier, getting drunk every night before "searching for his son". My brother and I have the same black hair, but only Carlisle had Mom's tanned skin and round, hazel eyes – I guess my father just feels like he's lost her all over again.

But I'm sick of this, absolutely _sick_. Ms Peasenburg physically kicked me out of the orphanage a few days ago, stating that if I had a father, "yah ain't no orphan an' the orphanage's no place for yah." I think the only reason she let me stick around before was because I had Carlisle with me, and his condition made her pity us. But now it's me, just me because I couldn't stop him from volunteering, couldn't protect him and I'm reminded of that every night when Dad tears the house apart looking for him. _My fault, my fault, my fault._

"Wait!" My ears are still buzzing with pain, but I can just manage to hear Dad's voice, see him freeze right as he rears back for another hit. "Tha' orphanage. Tha' dumb orphanage, you always hide 'im there!" The slur in his voice becomes more pronounced as he pauses to think, but his remaining hand's grip around my throat doesn't loosen, and I find my own fingers rising to his, trying desperately to pull them off.

Another punch stops my attempt, but also throws me to the ground and I gasp as air comes rushing back into my lungs, beautiful, beautiful mouthfuls of air. It's so overwhelming that I barely pay any more attention to my father, not registering any more of his drunken ramblings until they stop. That's when I look up, just in time to hear a door slam.

_No._ He's heading to the orphanage. Dad's been there before, he knows the route and now, once again, he's going to be broadcasting our family situation to the entire district. And the pitying looks people give me now are already more than enough.

My legs are shaky as I stand, brain still oxygen-deprived and for a moment, I worry I might fall over. But instead, I manage to make it to the front door, flinging it open and revealing the pitch blackness of District 9.

Thankfully, my eyes are already semi-adjusted to the dark, seeing as our house is about the same – we're much too poor to afford electricity. And there's my father, staggering down the street, still hollering Carlisle's name at the top of his lungs. At least he's not going fast, but he's going to wake the entire district soon with his yelling. And then they'll all see.

For a moment, I contemplate leaving him. Going back inside, or maybe just heading out onto the streets – anywhere would probably be better than home. But at the same time . . . at the same time, I just can't. I was already forced to abandon family once, when Carlisle went into the Games. I can't let something like that happen again, no matter how rotten my father may be.

"Dad!" The call comes out as more of a choked whisper, my throat still feeling as though it's on fire from nearly being crushed earlier, but I force myself to take off after him anyways. What a pair we must look like, hobbling off down the street, him impaired by alcohol while I'm still dizzy from being half-strangled. Even still, I'm in better shape than he is and catch up without much difficulty, but as I near him, I realise I have no further plan. He's not responding to my calls, and I can't grab him again – not if it'll result in another beating for the whole district to see. Yet it doesn't seem like I have another choice; he's almost about to turn onto another street, one I know is constantly patrolled by the Peacekeepers. And they don't take kindly to public intoxication.

So reluctantly, my hands reach out once more and as I grab his arm, his reaction is immediate; skidding to stop, he slams me against the nearest wall and growls, "_Don't touch me_."

"Damon?"

Oh, crap.

I know that voice. And sure enough, as my father turns and releases me, I get a glimpse of Awen Torrini, her husband standing closely next to her. _Shoot, shoot, shoot!_ Of all the places to go for a casual, late-night stroll, they had to walk down _this _street. I can feel the heat rising to my face, causing the bruises already present to sting even more, and I desperately hope they can't see either the red or the purple colouring my face. "H-hey, Mrs Torrini."

_Don't say anything, don't say anything, just walk away, just walk away . . ._But my silent prayer goes unheard as the two adults exchange looks before their eyes dart back to my father and I. Oh god, I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life.

Until the next moment, when my father steps forward and slurs, "Who the hell are you people?"

_No, no, no_. Unconsciously, my back presses against the wall, and I wish with all my might that I could just melt into it and disappear. The Torrinis are already one of the richest families in District 9, and while I'm positive they already looked down on us because of our lack of money, now they'll know how bad our family life is too. God, I wouldn't even mind if I died of embarrassment right now.

Awen's husband looks like he's preparing to step forward, but his wife beats him to it, showing absolutely no fear in face of my filthy, drunk father. "We are the Torrinis. Our daughter, Imogen, passed away in this year's Hunger Games." She manages not to flinch while saying the words, but my dad has the complete opposite reaction, eyes widening and mouth dropping, though I have a feeling it's less for Awen's sake and more because he's hearing the words "passed away" and "Hunger Games", something I've been trying to get him to understand since the bloodbath. Surprisingly though, he doesn't leap to attack like he does when I'm speaking – no, he stands, almost frozen as Awen continues, "And we know how hard it is to lose a child, especially to something as horrific as the Games. We understand the pain." Her eyes dart to me. "And we understand that we must cherish every single one of our other children, because you never know when they might be taken from you as well."

My father just stares at her, mouth gaping open like a fish. The she steps forwards, and I can see her husband tense in worry as she takes my dad's hand. But he doesn't do anything, merely continues to watch her as she asks, "Now, would you and your son like to come back to our house for some tea?"

"T-tea?" I don't think anyone's ever offered my father tea before, the word sounds so foreign on Dad's lips. Tea is a special drink, a rich one – we can never afford anything more than water and the rare, rare glass of milk.

"Yes," Awen says, smiling as she leads my father down the street, beckoning for me to follow. Both of us are absolutely shell-shocked, faced with the first offer of kindness we've received in years. But that doesn't stop either of us from trailing after Mr and Mrs Torrini, all the way to the warm safety of their home.

* * *

><p><strong>Basil Billions, Lore's Friend<strong>

I'm sitting alone on the steps of my house, which backs right onto the square. There's a book in my hand, though what it's about, I couldn't say. I've just been rereading one sentence over and over, barely taking in its meaning.

_The slope of a line can be calculated in a manner commonly referred to as "rise over run", where the line's rise is-_

Oh – this is my math textbook.

I sigh and close it shut with a snap. Part of me must have been subconsciously thinking about school when I grabbed this, seeing as we have a huge test tomorrow. But lately I just . . . haven't been bothered to study. Odd, seeing as I used to be the scholarly one of the group, always pushing the others to work and giving them help when they needed it.

Not that there's much of a "group" anymore, what with Lore dying. And I've started seeing Remus and Romulus less and less, only because we have such different personalities. They're loud and outgoing – I'm quiet and shy. Lore was a happy medium, and he was really what kept us all together.

It's still hard to believe he's gone. Sometimes, I'll subconsciously walk to his house on weekends, and it's not until I reach the front door that I realise I won't find what I want when I knock. So now I spend most of the time at home, reading, practicing the piano and not doing much else. Lore used to always try and get me out of my shell, into the world and before, I really, really tried. Now, I've practically gone back to the way I was before I befriended Lore, when I never talked to anyone besides my parents.

"Excuse me, Mr Billions."

Only one group of people refer to me that way, and sure enough, I look up to see a Peacekeeper standing over me, clearly trying to get to my house's front door. Which I'm currently blocking. Muttering a quiet apology, my face flushes red as I shuffle off the steps, allowing her to get by and rap her fingers against the solid oak of our door. I don't go too far though, and I can hear every word the Peacekeeper speaks as my father steps outside.

"What is it?"

"Sir, we've caught a thief running around the lower section of the district."

"Really?" My father perks up immediately. I've never been able to understand how much delight he gets out of watching others in pain, and while I absolutely hate it, there's not much I can do. He's my father, after all. "Well, bring him straight to the square and set up a firing squad! Lord knows it's been a while since we've had any excitement in this district."

The Peacekeeper, surprisingly, doesn't move immediately to follow his orders, instead fidgeting in a most un-Peacekeeper-like fashion. "The others are bringing him down here, sir," she begins. "But I'm not . . . well, a firing squad might not be necessary. Perhaps some time in jail, or even a few lashes, but I don't think a firing squad is the best choice. The thief's just . . ."

_A child. _The horrific realisation comes to me as movement sparks in the corner of my eye and I turn to see three more Peacekeepers enter the square, two of them holding the arms of a boy as he struggles against them with all his might. He couldn't be more than thirteen.

My father's face falls as he catches sight of them as well – even he wouldn't execute a child. But something in his expression changes as the Peacekeepers near him. "Hold on," he mutters, walking briskly down the steps and over to the group, the female Peacekeeper following quickly behind. I stick to the sidelines as much as I can, but still try to stay close enough to hear the others.

The boy tenses as my father approaches, then begins to shout a stream of curses that only someone who's lived on the poorer side of District 5 could possibly know. His yells are cut off shortly however, and I wince as one of the Peacekeepers cracks their weapon across the boy's head while another clamps a hand around his mouth, silencing any further swears. From what I can see of the kid's face and bare arms, he's already been hit numerous times by the officials, and the sickening purple colour that mottles his skin makes me want to turn away.

Instead, I watch as my father stops about a foot from the restrained boy, his eyes travelling up and down and I swallow nervously, not liking the grin that begins to appear on his face. "Oh, I'd recognise you anywhere. You're the spitting image of your father." The boy growls incoherent from beneath his gag and tries to kick at my father, only to receive another harsh whack with a baton across his back. "Yes, same looks, same profession. Same death." He turns to the female Peacekeeper from before, who's watching the exchange and biting her lip. "No, we will have a firing squad for this one. His family's nothing but bad news, and it's good we're nipping another criminal in the bud." My father looks back at the boy and grins. "Convenient that we were saved the trouble of taking care of his sister."

His words have the intended effect on the boy, who lets out a muffled yell and renews his struggles against the Peacekeepers, trying desperately to reach my father and tackle him. But the boy only manages to get one arm free before the officials retaliate, beating him to the ground and swiftly into submission. I barely even register it though, too caught up in figuring out who this boy is.

"_Convenient that we were saved the trouble of taking care of his sister."_

Of course, I'd thought he'd looked familiar. Webb Hudson, brother of Bree Hudson, who went into the Games alongside Lore. It was their father who was brutally shot for theft two years ago. And now Webb's going to follow in his footsteps.

Slowly, people begin to gather in the square, herded forward by the Peacekeepers who were given commands via radio – shootings are mandatory to watch, unless you're off working in the labs and bettering the district. This is how my father claims we will teach others to behave, yet I see nothing but discontent on people's faces as Webb is dragged over to the small, wooden platform that holds the post where criminals are died. For whippings, or shootings. The boy doesn't even fight back, too dazed from his previous beating, but I can see some of his fierce determination return as my father begins to address the crowd.

"Hello again, citizens of District 5! As you've probably guessed, you've been gathered here today to witness a criminal's punishment." Unhappy murmurs run through the crowd, but no one sounds surprised – until the Peacekeepers with guns step forwards. Most people probably thought Webb was just going to be whipped. My father seems to pick up on this, because he smiles and continues, "Yes, normally, we are lenient on our children – future of our district and all that. But once in a while, as we all know, bad genes form, and are passed down from generation to generation with absolutely no cure. This is one such occasion. I'm sure you all remember the shooting two years ago. And now we'll cleanse this district from the Hudson line, once and for all."

And that's when I see the fear in Webb's eyes, no matter how hard he tries to stay strong. Of course, why wouldn't he be terrified, he's _thirteen_. Two years younger than me, and my father's going to shoot him for theft. That can't be fair, can it? No, no, I don't think it can, and "Wait!"

Everyone turns at the loud outburst, and I find myself also wondering who spoke, until I realise all eyes are on me. _Me_. I was the one who just shouted. And, oh god, they're all looking at me and staring and my father's watching too and . . .

"Ah, Basil, want to be part of the fun?" A grin appears on my father's face as he nears me, throwing an arm around my shoulders and suddenly I find myself being dragged right in front of the punishment platform, where everyone can see me. "Yes, District 5, this is my son. Basil Billions, the future mayor." He gives me a cheery wink, which only serves to sicken me further. "Want to give the order, Basil?"

"No . . ."

"Ah, come on, it'll be fun! Don't be shy."

"N-no, I . . ." I can feel my face turning red, my words reduced to meaningless stutters – what am I doing? I can't argue with my father's decision, he's the _mayor._ And, of course, my father. But this . . . this just doesn't feel right.

_What would Lore do?_

The thought pops into existence so suddenly, I swear it must have been in the back of my mind all along. And somehow, the thought of my brave friend, who died protecting his allies, pushes me to continue. "I-I don't . . . think y-you should . . . shoot him."

My father freezes instantly at my words, and those at the front of the crowd, who were the only ones close enough to hear my mumbling, start whispering amongst themselves, repeating what I said to others behind them. "Basil, what is the matter with you?" my father whispers, keeping his voice hushed so he doesn't give people more to talk about. "Are you seriously suggesting we let that criminal go?"

"D-Dad, he's . . . he's j-just a kid."

"All kids grow up, and we can't have another Hudson man running rampant through the district. Now," he continues, turning away from me and raising his hand. Preparing to give the Peacekeepers the signal. _No._

And before I know it, I'm grabbing his arm. "Dad, wait . . ."

"Basil, _stop_." He shakes me off, giving me a glare that sends me into a fit of trembling. I don't back down though. "We'll talk about this later, now go wait with the crowd."

"N- . . . n-no."

"What?"

I step away from him, up onto the punishment platform, placing myself between Webb and the squad of Peacekeepers. My whole body is quivering, stomach churning sickeningly with nerves – everyone staring, _Dad_ staring, oh god, oh god._ Breathe, Basil. _His voice sounds so clear, it's almost as if Lore is standing beside me, helping me through this. _Breathe._

I do, and look my father straight the eye, ignoring everyone else watching. _Just focus on him, don't worry about the others. _"D-Dad . . . _Dad_. Don't do this, please. Let . . . let me handle it. You always said I need to practice making tough decisions to become mayor."

"Yes, but Basil, you're making the _wrong one_," he hisses back.

"Dad, please."

I can tell he's fuming, and the crowd must too; even more whispers flutter through the masses of people, and I'm surprised to see a few concerned faces looking up at me – I'm not exactly well-liked throughout the district. And I hope – no, no, I _know_ – there's no reason to be worried. My father may appear sadistic and merciless in the eyes of the general public, but he'd never hurt me.

"Fine." My father must have come to the same conclusion. "_Fine_. But you are playing a dangerous game, Basil. And I swear, if that boy is arrested again, I will have him shot. By the same ten men who killed his father."

_He agreed? He agreed?! Oh god, he . . . he agreed! You just, you just stood up to him and he actually agreed! _I nod numbly, too shocked to do anything else until my father raises an eyebrow and jerks his head in Webb's direction. "I said you could handle him, but if you can't, I'll just have my men . . ."

"N-no, no," I say hurriedly, somehow managing to find my voice – although it sounds much squeakier than I was hoping. "I-I've got this."

So slowly, hesitantly, I make my way over to the boy, trying not to flinch at the blood and bruises that coat him like a second skin. He doesn't make eye contact, and neither do I as I move around the post to untie his bonds.

I'm well aware that every eye in the square is trained on me, and it only serves to make me blush further, my palms breaking out in a nervous sweat. Which doesn't help the process of untying Webb – hard enough considering the complexity of the knots. I tug fruitlessly at the ropes, trying to at least get some slack, but if anything, they only tighten further, causing more embarrassed blushing. One minute passes, than two, and I'm starting to wish the firing squad would just shoot me, this is so mortifying. In front of an enormous crowd and I can't even untie simple knots – and all while my father watches. I can practically feel his gaze, boring into me and silently hoping I'll fail so he can prove his authority and teach me about "bad decision making". Oh god, this is all going to end up being a colossal waste – Webb's going to die and it'll be all my fault, just because I couldn't untie some stupid-

I don't hear them approach, but I do look up as I see the familiar knife slide through the ropes, effectively slicing them in half. Remus never goes anywhere without that knife.

The twins meet my gaze as they move to help an unsteady Webb to his feet, and slowly, our little procession makes its way out of the square, utterly silent as everyone watches us. With so much tension in the air, I don't think I could even manage a word. Heck, I can barely manage a breath.

Thankfully, no one follows us as we leave, and the twins half-carry Webb into one of the empty side streets while I follow behind, trying not to collapse in shock at the thought of what I just did. I-I stood up to the mayor. I stood up to my father.

"Dude, when did you become _awesome_?" Romulus, having helped his brother lower Webb into a more comfortable sitting position, turns on me with an incredulous look on his face. "I mean, that was . . . that was . . ."

"Brilliant!" Remus says, jumping forward and clapping me on the back. "Absolutely brilliant, Basil! Who knew you had it in you?"

I smile weakly in response; as always, the twins' presence is a bit overwhelming. But I didn't realise how much I'd missed it. However, movement in the corner of my eye stops me from responding, and instead I turn to Webb. At least, where he used to be – the boy is currently up and stumbling off down the alley.

Romulus notices just as I do, and it doesn't take long for him to catch the younger kid and escort him back towards us. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

"Let me go," Webb shouts, wriggling about in a desperate attempt at an escape – though due to his injuries from the Peacekeepers, the struggling is weak, and Romulus has no problem keeping him in place with one hand on the back of the boy's threadbare shirt. "Let. Me. Go!"

"Calm down, kid," Remus says, stepping back to avoid Webb's flailing arm. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Oh yeah?" Webb says viciously, throwing such a powerful glare in my direction that I nearly step back, despite the fact that I'm faced with a bloody, beaten thirteen-year-old. "_He's _going to! He's just like his father!"

"Dude, Basil saved your life," Romulus says, frowning down at the kid. "I think the words you're looking for are "thank you.""

"You're a rotten, merciless creep!"

"Pretty sure you owe him an "I'm sorry" now too."

"Guys, it's all right," I say quietly, barely audible over Webb's continued curses. Even still, all three stop and look at me, though Webb's still glaring. But surprisingly, it doesn't scare me this time, because I can't seem to see a fierce, strong boy in front of me anymore. Instead, he just looks lost and scared. And alone. I don't know much about life in the poorer areas of District 5, but I'm pretty observant. The ghost-like scars of fingernails scratches across his cheek aren't any sort of injury he would have earned from a Peacekeeper. And I remember Bree's interview, how her jaw tightened at the mention of her mother and she refused to say anything on the subject. Not to mention the fact that, a while ago, when we were forced to watch the reapings again as part of the Games recap, I noticed the faint outline of a slap mark across her cheek as she climbed to the stage. No wonder Webb didn't stick around, if the only person left for him was his mother. That must be why he was stealing too, if he's been living alone on the streets for who knows how long.

So instead of acting hurt or angry at his words, all I find myself saying is, "I'm sorry about your sister."

Webb looks shocked for a moment, then his expression quickly reverts back to furious as he spits, "Don't you _dare_ mention her. You don't know her. And you don't know what it's like."

"I do," I whisper softly, looking down at my feet. "Lore Fury was my best friend."

This startles Webb into silence, and even the twins lose their usual mischievous grins at the memory of Lore. "B-Best friend, Basil?" Remus puts a hand on his heart, acting overly distressed as he tries desperately to lighten the mood, to help us forget, but none of us miss the catch in his voice. "That hurts, man."

Once more, everything becomes quiet as the twins stare awkwardly at the ground while I watch Webb, who stares back at me, looking completely at a loss for words. He can't keep his anger up, and that seemed to be the only thing holding back his other emotions. Sadness. Guilt. Fear. Now he just looks utterly defeated, like a small puppy that's been kicked too many times to ever hope for a good home again.

"Remus, Romulus," I say suddenly, though I'm not entirely sure why I've spoken up myself. I just . . . I can't stand to see this kid look so heartbreakingly crushed. "It's Saturday, right?"

"Yeah . . ." Remus says slowly, glancing from me to his twin. "Why . . .?"

Simultaneously, both of their faces light up, giving way to one synchronised shout. "Leftovers Night!"

The twins' mother works as a cook for Kyrenne Taickerd, one of District 5's three victors. The woman loves to party, and holds these big get-togethers almost every Friday night – sometimes with just her and the other victors, sometimes inviting half the district's legally-allowed-to-drink population. The alcohol tends to be the star of the show, but just in case, Mrs Jones cooks up these lavish dinners for the guests. And whatever isn't eaten – usually quite a bit – she gets to take home to her family. Romulus and Remus aren't the richest, but they claim that on Leftovers Night, and for quite a while after, they eat like kings.

"Basil, you gonna come? Mom said there's gonna be cake. Actual, legit _cake_!"

"And two whole chickens, cooked up in that super delicious sauce with the long, weird name."

"And corn, all buttery and salty . . ."

"Ooh, ooh and those little pink, curly things that live in the water but aren't fish!"

As the twins continue to rant about the delicacies, I turn back to Webb. Part of me feels awkward doing this, but I know Romulus and Remus won't mind – the more the merrier at the Jones house, that's what they always say. "You want to come too?" I ask, and the boy's eyes widen in shock. "They always have tons of good food."

Webb continues to stare at me, so stunned at my offer that I can feel my heart twitch for him. He doesn't look like he's had a full meal in months. And slowly, the harsh, fierce façade melts completely away, leaving a boy who just wants a home to go back to. "Sure," he whispers softly, and I can hear the catch in his voice, from shock, relief and happiness that he's finally receiving kindness. "That'd . . . that'd be great."

* * *

><p><strong>Awny Tarrow, Code's Friend<strong>

"What to these do?"

"Put them down."

"Yeah, but what do they do?"

"Put them down."

"So, what, do I just take 'em in my hand, given 'em a shake and dump 'em he-. . . oh."

I watch as one of the little tiles I'd been trying to throw across the table skids right off the solid, wooden surface, rolling a short ways down the street before disappearing into a nearby storm drain with a little _sploosh_. Grandma Shoe gives me a look, quickly confiscating the rest of the tiles.

"Awnington Tarrow, how many time have I told you not to touch?"

"How many times have I told you not to call me Awnington?" I grumble back, reluctantly handing back the one tile still held in my palm.

She shakes her head, but I can see a small smile gracing her wrinkled lips. "You honestly prefer Awny? I wouldn't have thought that'd be much better."

It's not, especially with the nicknames it leads to – unfortunately, Scrawny Awny is used a lot more than Brawny Awny. Sucks, I would have been totally okay with that last one – but Awnington is far,_ far_ worse. It makes me sound like some uber rich snob. I sigh and lean back in my chair. "My parents must hate me."

Grandma Shoe whacks me on the arm with her cane. "Don't say that. Maybe they were just having a laugh."

My glare only serves to make her toothy grin widen – but of course, I'm not really angry. How could I be? Grandma Shoe's the only friend I have left.

Wow, an eighty-year-old woman is my only friend. Man, no wonder people make fun of me.

_You used to have another friend. _My heart sinks as I recognise that little voice in the back of my head speaks up – you know, the one that always says exactly what you _don't _want to hear. _And he was your age too. He was the best. But he-_

"Okay, I think it's time for me to go," I say quickly, rising from my seat. Grandma Shoe has this uncanny ability to know exactly what people are thinking – I _swear_ she's a witch – and I don't want to sadden her with thoughts of her grandson again. I've been moping about that long enough. "See you, Grandma Shoe," I continue, beginning to head off down the street before glancing sheepishly at the storm drain. "Oh, and, uh, sorry about your tiAHHH!"

Out of nowhere, something small, black, and clawed leaps onto my leg, climbing swiftly up my pants before latching itself onto my shirt, two of its talons digging into my shoulders while the other pair scrambles for purchase. They manage to find it though, because the second I try yanking the thing off, it yowls and buries its claws deeper into my flesh, which in turn causes _me _to yowl. And it is not a pretty sound.

"Well, you can't go that way now," Grandma Shoe says mildly, a spark of amusement in her eyes as she watches me struggle – gah, curse her! "A black cat crossing your path is bad luck."

"Yeah? What about a black cat trying to maul you to death?!"

"Verybad luck."

Oh, I wish I could glare at her right now – but I'm too occupied with this freaking _cat_. It's clung to my shoulder, refusing to move even as I try yanking it off. Not a good idea, I realise a second too late as its nails claw even more viciously at my skin. "Ah! God, get _off_!"

"Pascal!"

"Stupid. Cat."

"Pascal!"

"I swear I'll-"

Holy crap.

Ho. Ly. Crap.

Hot girl.

Really, _really _hot girl.

Wait.

"Ah!"

I leap back from the new arrival in shock, a girl who just came around the corner of the street, shouting someone's name. And yes, admittedly, my first thought was: _very _attractive. All wavy, dark brown hair and beautiful green eyes. But I'm not interested in dead people. "Ghost!"

The girl stares at me in confusion as I take another step back. "Or zombie! Whatever you are, you're . . . oh." Mentally, I slap myself – I'd do it physically too, if my hands weren't busy trying to deal with a psychotic cat. "Idiot. Duh, you're that victor chick. Twins. It was your sister who died, not you, you're not dead, obviously, that's absolutely . . . absolutely . . . oh, crap." The girl's expression has gone from confusion to hurt shock, those adorable green eyes filling with sadness as her brow knits together. "I . . . I just called you the victor chick. And brought up your dead sister. Again. Just now. Crap, crap, crap! I'm so sorry, I'm-"

"Lovely to meet you, dear." Oh, thank goodness for Grandma Shoe. She steps smoothly in front of me, offering her hand to the shocked girl and smiling warmly. "My name is Adamaena Schuyler and this is Awnington Tarrow."

"_Awny_," I say, glaring at Grandma Shoe's back before stepping around her to see the girl again. "And I have a horrible condition where I don't really think before I talk – well, I do, but I don't think about what I'm going to say, I just say what I think, which is why I said all that stuff and I'm so sorry, by the way, it gets especially bad when I'm nervous, or when there's girls around, especially hot girls which is why, you know, when you showed up, I . . . I . . ." Forget slapping myself, can I just die and save myself the embarrassment? "Made an absolute fool out of myself. Oh god." I can feel the heat rushing to my face, and it doesn't help that Grandma Shoe's not stepping in to stop me on this one – no, she looks quite content to sit back and enjoy my conversation. _Wonderful. _"Uh, I'm just going to go mind the stall. And maybe find a hole to die in."

The girl merely watches me inch slowly back towards Grandma Shoe's fortunetelling stall, her expression changing from sad to completely stunned, as though she couldn't manage to comprehend all my ramblings. Man, I hope she didn't. Please, please, _please_ let her not have.

"Schuyler?" She manages to shake herself out of her shock enough to look from me to Grandma Shoe – good, now I can berate myself for being an absolute _idiot _without her watching. "As in . . ." The girl glances down at her feet – also fine, as long as she's not watching me. "Code Schuyler?"

The name manages to break through my current cloud of self-loathing and glance over at the girl unconsciously, biting my lip at the memories. _Code. My friend. My _only _friend. _His grandmother just doesn't count on the same level as he does. Did. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Grandma Shoe nods sadly, patting the girl on the back. "And yours too, Lura."

Of course, Lura Carson – I can't _believe_ I didn't recognise her immediately. No, instead I had to go off on a tangent about her dead sister, which probably totally crushed her. See Awny, _this _is why you don't get girls. "A-Anyways," Lura continues, trying to subtly wipe her eyes on her sleeve while I do the same, both of us still immersed in memories of District 2's latest tributes. "I'm just here f-for her cat. The cat. Pascal. He keeps running out of the house and . . ." She sighs, sending a weary look my way – crap, she's watching! Dry your eyes faster, you can't cry in front of a girl. "I think he hates me."

"What, me? No, no, of course not! I think you're a wonderful person, seriously, amazing and . . ." I peter off as Grandma Shoe gives me a pointed look. "Oh. Cat. Yeah, I meant the cat. Thinks you're a wonderful person. Yeah."

The girl's green eyes dart to me, and I can see the beginnings of a blush creeping their way up her cheeks. I know the same is happening to me, though while she's looking all pink and adorable, I'm probably closely resembling a tomato. "Anyways, yeah, take him. Please."

I try to yank him off her, but the cat only yowls and hangs on tighter. More fruitless tugging results in more clawing me to death and god, this is so embarrass- . . .

She's smiling. She's _smiling!_ Okay, granted, it's only a small smile, but it's directed at _me_! "I think he likes you."

_Say something cool, say something cool_. "Ha, well, he's one of the first."

Yeah. That makes you sound _real_ cool, Awny.

But Lura's little smile only grows, ever slightly, as she steps forwards to help de-cat me. "I'm sure that can't be true." What? _What?_ Did she actually just say that? Knowing full well what it means? God, I hope my smile doesn't look as big and stupid as it feels. "He's really stuck on you," she continues, also trying to tug the cat off and uttering a quick apology when I wince from the thing's claws.

Okay, Awny, now's your time to finally make that good impression. "Well, you know, if he's not gonna come off, maybe you should just come with me." Lura looks up in confusion and I add another mental slap to my infinitely growing amount. "I mean, you know, cat's not coming off. So I could come with you. Not to your house – that sounds really creepy, doesn't it? I mean . . . come to . . . a place. A place that, uh . . ." My fingers start nervously fidgeting with the cat's fur, and surprisingly, it seems to enjoy it, if the purring is any indication. "A place that, I dunno, sells food. And we could, ah, eat the food . . . you know, there, but like, we're sitting . . . well, we could sit at the same table . . ."

Of course – the one time I need to say more, I can't find the words. I swear, there is someone out there watching over me and making sure I never get a girlfriend. Maybe it's Code. He'd get a kick out of this, he always did whenever I tried to talk to girls. Oh man . . .

"Are you . . ." Lura herself seems overtaken by embarrassment – who could blame her, mine is infectious – yet she's still more coherent than I am. "Are you trying to ask me out?"

"No. Yes. Gah." I groan in frustration, wishing that just for _once _I wasn't an awkward idiot. "Look, I just . . . well, I've probably made like, fifty bad impressions on you since like, ten minutes ago when you first appeared. And I really just . . . kinda, sorta . . . wanted to make one good one."

I'm so occupied with the conversation that I barely notice the cat, which, thanks to my unconscious fidgeting/petting, has retracted its claws and is now purring happily on my shoulder. Lura and I glance at it for a moment, then she slowly reaches out and plucks him off, leaving behind the ruined mess of my shirt (yet the thing didn't even draw blood. Great, so I was wincing and yelling over nothing). "Well, guess you've got the cat now," I say, clapping my hands together in an attempt to distract from the previous conversation. "So no need for the . . . yeah, I guess you're good. See you then, maybe, although you probably never want to see me again, which I totally understand considering everything, so, yeah. Not see you. Won't see you." _Idiot, idiot, idiot – just walk away and be done with it. _"Bye."

"Wait." Is that . . . is that a _hand_, grabbing my arm? And, more importantly, is that _her _hand? And her voice? I turn back, seeing Lura, fidgeting nervously herself, but the small smile is back. "Now that I have Pascal back, I don't really have much else to do with my day. So maybe . . . that is, if you're still willing to go to that place where we can eat." Then she grins, a real, genuine grin, and though I have a feeling it's partly due to the stupid look overwhelming my face, I can't find it in myself to care. Is this actually happening? _This is actually happening!_

"Yeah, uh, yeah, that'd be fantastic." The two of us smile and almost start to walk off before I stop. "Wait, better not go down this street. Black cat crossing your path, bad luck and all that."

"Actually . . ." I nearly jump, almost completely forgetting that Grandma Shoe has been here the entire time, watching our whole awkward exchange. She's grinning as well, of course, but beside the amusement in her eyes is a spark of true happiness as she comes over and pets the cat, nestled in Lura's arms. "I don't think this one brought bad luck at all."

* * *

><p><strong>Maleek Orkid, Father to Dylian's Friend<strong>

I remain silently at the mayor's side as she and her husband walk through the district. There's really no need for Mason Marsh, Head of Exportation to be present, but I don't say anything; Amber Marsh has been quite keen on keeping her last loved one close to her since her daughter passed. It doesn't matter, not really – I'm not expecting this to be a dangerous job. Which is merely I, and not a host of other Peacekeepers, accompany the mayor now, through the richer part of town to the dusty, dirty slums of District 11's outer area.

I can feel my fists clench tightly in my anxiousness to get this job done. Finally, _finally_, we are doing something about that rotten thief that terrorised our district's higher class for so long. We'd nearly had him, more than a month ago, and yet, he'd still managed to slip through our fingers by being reaped. I can't imagine what problems a thief like Dylian Carte could have given the Capitol during his stay there.

It had angered me that, at that point, everyone seemed to decide to give up on the case. He was going into the Hunger Games, there was nothing we could do, the Capitol was punishing him more than we ever could – they _didn't understand_. It was not the boy's punishment that concerned me, it was the reason behind it. He'd needed to know what he did was wrong, needed to wrestle with the guilt of hurting others in order to help himself. Otherwise, he'd just go back to cheating the law.

But the boy had died, and to the end hadn't probably felt a _thing _for the people he'd stolen from. So the case wasn't closed. And I'd finally managed to convince the mayor to visit his family, demand recompense for all their son had done. She'd waited though, for ages – said she didn't want to force another burden on them too soon after the death of their son. I am not a patient man, but I had to comply. And now the right thing was finally being done.

Our trio comes to a stop outside one of the more dilapidated shacks in District 11, which we've learned to be the home of Dylian Carte. I glance over at the mayor, who merely shakes her head. "This was your idea, Maleek," she says, using that same weary, resigned tone that always creeps into her voice these days. "You can knock."

So I do, three quick raps that I'm almost positive will accidentally cave the flimsy door in. But it holds, and no sounds come from inside to indicate anyone is coming to open it. I try again, this time also announcing, "Mrs Carte, this is Head Peacekeeper Maleek Orkid and Mayor Marsh." Amber's husband doesn't seem to mind the fact that I've excluded him, seeing as his position is of no importance in this situation. "We have reason to believe your family is in line with a criminal. I command you to open this door."

More silence follows, and I glance at the mayor, who gives a small sigh. "If you think it's necessary."

I do. Placing my foot against the door, I give it a solid shove – a kick isn't even necessary with something this weak. The fragile piece of wood collapses inward from the force and I march inside immediately, one hand going to the baton at my hip in case the family does try to resist arrest. Yes, there they all are: a frail, pale woman who looks lost to the world, a disturbingly pregnant fifteen-year-old clutching a younger girl in her arms and . . . a Peacekeeper? I didn't tell any of my men to bother coming, why would-?

Then the Peacekeeper turns around, and I realise it isn't just anyone: it's my son.

"Joh?" The surprise of the situation has shocked some of the formality out of my voice, something I try desperately to regain as the mayor enters the home with her husband. "What are you doing here?"

He stares at me for a moment, also stunned – I guess when I told him today that I was "going to confront the family of a ruthless criminal", he hadn't assumed I meant this. "I-I could ask you the same thing. I mean, I thought you had an arrest to make today." The realisation dawns on him and he steps quickly forward, placing all the members of the Carte family behind him. "Dad, you're not seriously thinking-?"

"This is the family of the notorious thief," I tell him, surprised he doesn't already know this. Why else would he be here if not to confront them for their crimes as well?

"Yeah, but Dad, they lost-"

"It doesn't matter," I say firmly. Then my eyes land on the counter behind him, where a spread of food lies that, if this house says anything about their financial state, is much too expensive for the family to afford. I don't believe this! This, _this _is what happens when the law isn't enforced immediately: criminals think it's just fine to repeat their crimes. "Look, son, they've stolen again! This can't be allowed to-"

"I bought this for them."

"What?"

Joh himself looks a bit shocked at his sudden outburst, but he nods firmly, and I can see in his eyes that he's telling the truth. "I gave it to them. I've been doing it ever since the reapings."

If there's any logic to what the boy is saying, it's lost on me – why in the world would he do something like that? A question I finally manage to voice, after getting over my initial shock.

"Because . . ." He hesitates, and I can almost see the war being waged in his mind as he tries to decide what to say next. "Because . . . because Dylian Carte was my friend."

_What_? No, no, that's not possible . . . is it? I don't really know anything about my son's personal life, seeing as when we talk, it's always about the duties of a Peacekeeper. "You can't be serious."

"I am. And . . ." He sighs, glancing up at me. "I knew he was a thief too. I'm sorry, Dad."

"You . . . You . . ." No, I don't want to believe this. But the truth is written all over Joh's face. He knew, _the whole time_, who the thief was and he never, ever divulged the information? Seventeen years of training this boy to know right from wrong and in the end, he still makes the bad decisions. "How could you?" Joh flinches at my tone but stands firm as I take a step forward. "You _knew_?! And, despite your responsibility as a Peacekeeper to uphold the law and protect the citizens of this district from those who seek to exploit them, you _didn't tell anyone_? All these years, I thought you were like me, all these years I tried to teach you right from wrong and now you'll still get marked down as an accomplice." I wish this weren't happening, hope with all my might that this is a nightmare, or just my son's very unfunny idea of a joke. But it's not and the day I never thought I'd see is here. As a Peacekeeper, I have a duty to punish criminals, and I'm now going to have to arrest my own son and have him shot for aiding a thief. _No, no, Joh. Why?_

"Actually, I don't believe there's any need for that." The mayor steps forward just as my hand goes to the cuffs hanging from my belt. "I was going to ignore this whole thief debacle anyways." She stops next to me, looking my son up and down with narrowed, green eyes. "You've been supporting this family since the reapings."

Joh swallows nervously, but the Peacekeeper training takes over and he stiffens, giving her a quick nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Why couldn't they support themselves?"

"Dylian was the one who looked after them. And after he died, his mother went into shock. They would have starved otherwise."

"So you believe this was the right thing to do?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you'd do it again, even if the penalty for getting caught was death?"

Joh never even flinches. "Yes, ma'am."

Amber ponders this for a bit, then her analysing gaze widens and she smiles. "You've raised a good son, Maleek," she says, turning back to me. "One who most definitely knows right from wrong. I don't believe you give him enough credit."

Two identical pairs of brown eyes stare at her in shock, both Joh and I completely stunned by this information. Her grin only widens at our expressions as she looks from me to my son. "All charges are dropped, against both you and Dylian Carte's family. Unless our Head Peacekeeper has anything to say about that."

I can't manage to form words at the moment and attempt to cover this moment of unprofessionalism by giving my head a curt shake. Amber smiles at that and turns away, heading further into the house.

"I really am sorry, Dad," Joh says as soon as she leaves. "I know I should have told you, but I just . . . I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"It's fine," I say gruffly. "I, uh . . . I apologise as well. You did the right thing, helping this family."

Joh smiles, hesitating for a moment before giving me a quick hug, ignoring all the times I've told him to remain professional while in uniform. But I just can't seem to care too much about that at the moment. Then he walks away, heading to the two girls quivering in a corner, talking and joking and making them laugh to forget the fear. Meanwhile, the mayor has come to a stop beside the girls' mother, who sits chalk white and unresponsive in a corner. Amber's gaze saddens almost immediately as she looks down at the woman, and she lays a careful hand on the shoulder of Dylian's mother. "I'm so, so sorry for your loss."

Hard to believe these are a criminal's family members. Hard to believe they've spent all their lives laughing at the law. Or perhaps . . . perhaps they haven't. Perhaps they merely had no alternative. Perhaps this boy Dylian just wanted to protect his family.

This new realisation dawns on me, and it feels almost as though I'm waking up, seeing the world for the first time. Just like Dylian's mother, who puts her own hand to Amber's and looks up as the two women share tears of mourning and understanding.

* * *

><p><strong>Abalone Glint, Caregiver to Achilles's Children<strong>

The twins look adorable, all bundled up in the sweaters I made, and I just know I'm going to miss having them around. It often gets lonely around my home, which hasn't been graced by a child's presence since my dear son Dazzle volunteered for the Games so many years ago. Two sons and a daughter, I'd had, and all had left for the Capitol and never returned. Brilliance in the 3rd Games, Glitz in the 4th and Dazzle in the 5th. Of course, no one save me remembers them now. Even their mentors, Spinel and Zeus, have probably forgotten of their existence. Only Michael might remember, seeing as Glitz was his district partner.

I sigh wearily. Too many children, lost to the Games, dreaming of riches and never pondering the consequences. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky – other than 2, District 1 has brought more tributes home than anyone else. But six children, six out of seventy-four remaining; it just doesn't seem worth it.

"Aba?" Quinne tugs at my dress, staring up at me with her big, beautiful eyes, and for a moment, I almost think she's going to ask me what's wrong. Even at her age, the toddler can be incredibly perceptive. But no, she's only two, and of course she merely wants to hold my hand as we exit my house. I smile down at the girl and outstretch my free arm, while the other holds a sleeping Deimos at my hip.

I was almost surprised when I received the message from Zeus, asking me to bring the twins to his house. My guardianship of them was supposed to be temporary, true – but after Achilles passed, I figured it might become permanent. The fifty-three-year-old victor may have taken his best friend's son in after Christius Atromitos died, but Zeus has never seemed like the type of man to raise a child. And after the death of his godson, and knowing whose fault it was that he was reaped (I'd guessed before, but after overhearing two of District 1's victors discussing it, I knew for certain), I'm understandably hesitant to leave the twins in his care.

Still, I set out for Victor's Village all the same. As much as I wish they were my own, having grown so fond of them over the past weeks, I simply cannot keep the twins. Perhaps Zeus feels bad for his godson's death, and if so, Quinne and Deimos are all he has left to remember Achilles by. It's not right of me to keep them from him.

Yet I worry for the twins' fate.

The walk to Victor's Village doesn't take long – my home is right above my jewellery shop, which is close to the town's centre, as is the small area dedicated to Hunger Games winners. All the houses looked identical when first built, and the only way to tell them about is by the large, garish plaques welded above six front doors, placed there by the Capitol, no doubt. I pass _Splendor Gold, victor of the 30__th__ Games, Julius Felfet, victor of the 23__rd__ Games_ and _Argent Ore, victor of the 18__th__ Games _before I hear the voices that make me pause.

". . . money _wasted_! You couldn't have saved it for later, couldn't have saved it for something that actually mattered?"

"Nothing you could have sent would have saved your daughter, Schylla, so don't blame me for using _my_ tribute's sponsor money."

"_Our _tributes'! That money was from Cordelia's sponsors as well and you wasted it on a _trident_! He already had a sword, Zeus!"

The houses of Victor's Village have been placed in a crescent shape, and it's easy to see everything going on down the street. My heart sinks as I recognise Zeus, coldly furious as he argues with a red-faced Michael Schylla. _Definitely not a family man, _I think, holding the twins closer to me. _Definitely not._

"Honey, just come inside. Please." A woman stands off to the side as well – Ziry Schylla, Michael's wife, I assume. She looks very much like she wants an end to the argument, yet she doesn't move to interfere. Understandable – the two men look as though they're about to come to blows, and stepping between them now would be a dangerous move.

"Even if it was a waste, it wouldn't have mattered," Zeus says harshly. "At that point, Achilles was our only tribute left. Cordelia couldn't have benefitted either way. Face it, Schylla, the only person responsible for your daughter's death is you, no matter how much you wish you could pin the blame on me."

"How . . . how . . ." For a moment, Michael appears to be at a loss for words, too angry to even form a sentence. Then, his rage explodes forth. "How _dare_ you! I had no hand in my daughter's death!"

"And who pushed her to volunteer?"

"What about _you?!_" the younger man practically roars, glaring daggers at Zeus. "You _purposely _sent your godson off to _die_! You knew what he was like, knew he'd never kill and yet you had him reaped! You monster!"

Zeus tenses visibly, jaw clenching so tightly it's a miracle he can get his next words out. "Don't bring Achilles into this. You know full well that I did what I had to."

"But you _didn't _have to! You just let your pride and greed get in the way – oh, you couldn't _wait _to have a son for a victor-"

"Shut up, Schylla."

"-even if your murdered your godson to try and get it!"

"I'm warning you."

"Of course that didn't matter though, because you. Didn't. _Care_."

_Bam!_

Quinne and Ziry Schylla let out simultaneous cries as Zeus slams his fist into Michael's jaw. The other man didn't win the Hunger Games for nothing though, and he easily blocks Zeus's next hit, trying to get one in of his own. No more yelling comes from either man – no, they're too focused on trying to kill each other, all while Michael's wife screams for him to stop and Quinne sobs, hiding behind my skirt and asking me why her grandfather is getting hurt.

The child is what snaps me out of my shock. Quinne and Deimos have too much pain in their lives already, what with everything that happened to their father. Zeus hurt them already, when he forced Achilles into the Games. He will not hurt them again.

"_Enough_!" I haven't tried to sound this severe since my children died, but it seems I haven't gotten out of practice; the word is harsh and loud enough for both men to hear, and they stop in the middle of their fight, Zeus with his hands around Michael's throat while Michael prepares to punch Zeus in the stomach. "This is _disgraceful_," I continue, marching over to the two of them and glaring until they release each other. "Absolutely _disgraceful_. You two are grown men, fighting like children! And you are disgracing the memories of both your daughter and your godson."

They both eye me warily before sending another glare at each other, which I interrupt instantly be releasing Quinne's hand and snapping loudly at the two men. "I said _enough_. You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Now, I want you both to go inside your own houses and leave the other alone. Your behaviour is appalling, and I won't stand for it anymore." My words don't seem to have registered, because all they do is stare in shock until I snap again. "Go on, _now_."

Fortunately, Mrs Schylla reacts, stepping forward to take her husband by the arm. She pauses only for a moment, giving me a grateful look while shooting a glare at both victors, beginning to berate her husband for his actions. My work done, I take Quinne's hand once more and turn swiftly on my heel, preparing to leave this neighbourhood and never return. But a hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Wait." I look back, glaring at Zeus Dynamos as he stares steadily back. "You have to give me the kids."

"I don't have to do _anything_, Mr Dynamos," I say scathingly. "Especially not after what I just witnessed. I had my reservations about handing back the twins before, but I was willing to give you the benefit of doubt. However, your little demonstration here has proved that you're clearly _not _suited to look after children, so I will be taking the twins back with me. Good day."

"You can't do that," Zeus says angrily, matching my stride as I begin to walk away once more. "They're _my _grandkids."

"They are _not_ your grandkids, nor will they ever be. Achilles was not your son, and you clearly never thought of him that way, or you wouldn't have thrown his life away so casually."

I might as well have whacked the man over the head with a club, he looks so appalled. "_What_? How dare . . . I would never have thrown his life away, _never_. I had my own reasons for doing what I did, and you couldn't possibly understand. So you do _not _get to lecture me."

"No reason could ever justify that boy's murder," I say, my tone remaining steady even when faced with Zeus's furious glare.

"You don't know that."

"I do. And the fact that you continue to deny it only shows me how unfit you are to parent."

"The twins are _mine_."

"And what will you do with them? Force them to train like you did with Achilles?"

"No, of course-"

"Push them to throw their lives away in those dreadful Games, merely so you can gloat about their achievements?"

"_Enough._"

And I do stop, for a moment, though not because of the anger in Zeus's tone. Because of the sadness, and the shame I can hear, despite the fact that his rage tries to cover it. The presence of such emotions surprises me, and I find my next question spoken in a much softer voice than the ones I've used before. "You really do miss him, don't you?"

The man seems surprised by my sudden change in tone, and all the shock melts the anger in his features. Finally, he appears to realise he can't keep up his enraged façade and sighs, his blue eyes taking on such a saddened look that for a moment, I have a hard time remembering I'm still speaking to Zeus. "Of course," he murmurs quietly. "He was my best friend's son."

I watch her for a moment, taking in the sudden change in his demeanor. "You are quite the enigma, Zeus Dynamos." He glances up, and stares, stunned as I move to hand him a miraculously still sleeping Deimos. The look on the man's face as he gently takes the boy in his arms, the small upwards twitch of his lips as he takes in the child's napping form, is more than enough to make me smile as well. "But I have conditions."

Zeus tears his gaze away from the boy and raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"

"I will act as their caretaker. You don't need to pay me with anything, but I must be allowed to check up on them, once a day."

"And?"

"That's all I ask."

"Really?" He glances at Deimos once more before looking down at Quinne, who's slowly getting over her earlier fear and inching closer to the familiar figure of her grandfather. "Of course." Zeus looks back up at me, and, even if his lips remain unmoving, I can see the smile in his eyes. "Of course."

"Good." I let go of Quinne's hand, allowing her to go to her grandfather. "I will see you tomorrow then."

"Abalone," he calls me back, just as I turn to go. My eyes move once more to find Zeus's face, watching him smile down at the children as Quinne hugs his leg, rambling on about how she missed her "granddaddy." "Thanks."

And looking at the man, seeing his happiness with the children, leads me to believe that I don't have anything more to worry about.

* * *

><p><strong>Poe Kaddle, Calican's Friend<strong>

"Now, who remembers the man who created the Hunger Games and why? Anyone? Come on, I know you all know this."

I can hear Mr Cattelmen sigh, but I don't look up from my desk. Usually, the class's mood is low for about a week after the Games, while we all try and get over how our tributes were brutally murdered. District 10 is big though, with ranches and farms all spread out, so there are quite a few tiny schools scattered around. In fact, most of us don't know anybody outside of our little area in the district, nicknamed "Tannum Falls," after some historical figure and the fact that we back onto the edge of the district, which ends in a steep cliff not two metres from the fence.

That's why we've been taking this so hard – usually, we barely know the kids going into the Games. But this year, both were from our area. Devera was one thing – Keya was a mess after she died, didn't come to school for a week. I can see her now, sitting in the aisle across from me and doodling in her notebook, wearing that same depressed expression she's had since her sister died. But Calican was well-known and liked throughout our class and the school in general. Everybody would greet at him, made jokes about the strange circumstances surrounding his birth, ask him for homework help because, whereas I am the "unapproachable nerd", he was the nice kid who conveniently happened to be smart too.

And we didn't just watch him die. No, we were forced to watch him go insane as well.

The pencil I've been absentmindedly fiddling with suddenly snaps as more memories of the Games flow back to me. It's not fair, it's just _not fair _that sweet, kind guys like Calican are forced into the arena and tricked into killing. He'd never had a chance, because he wasn't like the others – he couldn't just ignore the fact that he was taking a life. The guilt overwhelmed him, as it would for any decent human being. Yet that District 8 boy killed him like it was nothing, and then proceeded to win the Games.

_It's just not FAIR._

"Poe?" I glance up to see Mr Cattelmen staring at me expectantly. "Can you tell us who created the Hunger Games and why?"

Of course he'd ask me; I always know the answers, and usually, I feel like sharing them. Not today, though – but what can I do? "The Hunger Games were created by Gregorio Deutschten, the president of Panem at the time," I answer dully, and the teacher nods in relief, thankful that at least someone is speaking – he doesn't even seem to care that no one is paying attention.

"And why did he create them?"

"Because before the president had been elected, he'd been Head of Military Defense, and during the war, he had gone to set up an ambush with a group of soldiers. They were all captured by the rebels, who offered them an ultimatum. For each day that passed, if no one had revealed the Capitol's war secrets, a soldier would be murdered until only one remained, who would be sent back to the Capitol to show the rebels meant business. The rebels picked soldiers at random, and as none of the soldiers actually had the secrets the rebels were looking for, no one was safe. Until some people got the idea that, if they made sure they were the last ones standing, took chance out of the equation, then they would live. The first soldier to murder another was a woman by the name of Vaunnia Hungernim. She killed three more before someone else took her out. At that point, the rebels barely even needed to do anything – the soldiers were murdering themselves. Gregorio Deutschten was the last man standing, and the rebels sent him back to the Capitol to tell of the districts' strengths, to try and frighten them into submission."

_Their biggest mistake._

"And then when Deutschten became president, he decided to take revenge and make the districts pay for the atrocities they had committed, namely turning soldiers and friends against one another. The Hunger Games were born – though they were only named such after the first Games. Partly due to the amount of tributes that had starved or turned to cannibalism in the arena, and partly in "honour" of Vaunnia Hungernim, who was the instigator of what one could call the actual "first" Games," Mr Cattelmen finishes, throwing me a grateful smile. "Thank you, Poe. Now-"

"Sir?"

He stops, mid-turn, and his eyes travel back from the chalkboard to me. "Yes, Poe?"

"Why are we taught that the Hunger Games are an act of revenge?"

The man blinks, surprised and confused at my question. Part of me feels stunned at my outburst as well and yet, it seems to make perfect sense. At least, so says the anger steadily forming within me, anger like nothing I've ever felt before. I'm usually known as cheerful, bubbly Poe, who's never found anyone she disliked. But now, I'm overwhelmed by the foreign feeling of hatred. Hatred of _them_. For taking Keya's sister. And Calican. And every tribute I cannot name.

The Capitol should pay.

"You tell us this every time," I say, carefully keeping my anger in check as I address our Hunger Games History teacher. "That the Hunger Games are an act "of revenge". But they're not anymore, are they?"

"Poe, I . . ." Mr Cattelmen frowns as I continue to watch him, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see heads rising from desks, despondent faces actually paying attention to what's going on in class. Maybe my fellow students don't know entirely what's going through my mind, but they can tell my behaviour his far from normal. "I don't believe I understand the question."

"Eighteen soldiers were killed when Gregorio Deutschten and his team were captured. Eighteen. Wouldn't one Hunger Games have been enough revenge? Seeing as in the actual Games, twenty-three children died as opposed to eighteen already-trained killers."

"W-Well, I-"

"But it hasn't stopped." I can feel almost everyone's eyes on me, a fact that would usually make me nervous – I'm not used to being the centre of attention. Yet now, I couldn't care less. "Eight hundred and fifty one tributes have died in the Games." The mental calculation is, surprisingly, not hard – I feel as though I've had the number burned into my mind, memorised my entire life. "Seventy-one of those District 10 citizens. Over eight hundred children dead, leaving behind thousands of broken families and ruined friends and the Games are still an "act of revenge"? No, no – revenge was had a _long _time ago. This is our torture now. And their amusement. And it is _not _fair."

"Poe, I can understand your distress," Mr Cattelmen says nervously, running his fingers through his hair. "I-I really do. But you just . . . you can't _say _this kind of thing. I'm afraid I may have to send you to the principal's office."

"Why?" It's not me that speaks now, and I turn, surprised to see Keya rising out of her chair, her dead eyes alive and dancing for the time in a long while. "For speaking her mind? For speaking the _truth_. She's right – this isn't fair. _None _of this is fair, yet they think they can pretend otherwise just because they allow one person to leave the arena alive. One. Person. Out of twenty-four."

"It's disgusting." That's Kastler, chiming in from the back of the class. "And what's worse is, we go along with it. Seriously, every year we flock to that square like sheep, and every year we sit quietly by while two innocent children are sent off to die. What is _wrong _with us?"

"We're scared of the Capitol." I've never spoken to Braunwyn Sheerer in my life, always thought of her as a bit of a blonde ditz, yet she's standing with us all the same. "They're brainwashed us into believing that they will always be more powerful, and we've blindly accepted that fact. But it's not true. They can be defeated, can screw up – just look at this year's victor."

"Janaff Skye," Edvin Poulley mutters from his seat, speaking louder than a reluctant whisper for the first time I can remember. "Son of two rebels. Probably purposefully reaped so the Capitol could get rid of him. But he won."

"And I heard the Capitol murdered his grandparents, two innocent, elderly people, to keep him in line," adds Corroway Tevans, whose father works as a conductor, driving all over Panem to help in the exportation of the districts' goods. He's the only one who ever knows what goes on in the other districts.

"Oh god. And to think we let people like that _rule _us." Farron Night, the cool kid who usually acts "above it all."

"It's insane. Absolutely insane." Wenda Prong, a class clown who I hadn't thought to possess a serious bone in her body.

"Damn right it is." Flock Hurdlinick, a boy most people usually avoid because they worry about his levels of sanity.

One by one, all of my classmates rise, adding in their own comments that, while unique, all carry the same theme: the Capitol is monstrous. And something must be done.

"Children, please, sit down!" Mr Cattelmen says hurriedly, trying to calm us with rapid hand gestures. "Look, you have to understand, you _can't say these things_. Please, please, just stop this or we'll all be punished!"

"We've been punished our whole lives, Mr Cattelmen." It's me speaking once more, and slowly, I rise from my seat at the front of the class, the last student to do so. "It's time to do something about it."

And I march right out our classroom door.

I can hear the shuffles and footfalls that indicate everyone else is following me, joined quickly by another sound. Shouts. Cheers.

"Screw the Hunger Games!"

"We won't stand for this!"

"Down with the Capitol!"

Battle cries.

Doors open as we file down the hall, teachers sticking their heads out with expressions of worry, pity – and, in one or two cases, fierce pride. Some join us, some don't; yet for every class we past, at least one student leaves to join our growing crowd. But we're not doing any good here, not when the only people to hear us are those who can do nothing more to help our situation. No, the people that matter are miles away, the mayor, Head Peacekeeper and their associates spending their days in the district's centre, while we live here on the outskirts. We'll never make it there.

But we can try.

The doors to the school fly open as our procession exits, marching down the streets and attracting many a stare from citizens going about their daily business. Most only watch, while some even try to distance themselves as quickly as possible. Yet still, as with the school, a few people join our group, and though I can't see them, I can feel the swell of the crowd behind me, the loudening footfalls, the strengthening of our cries. And it gives me a rush, a huge, crazy rush, the likes of which I've never done before. We are finally doing something. We are finally standing up.

_We're honouring your memory, Calican. And Devera. This is for both of you._

We make it another four blocks before the Peacekeepers come for us.

* * *

><p><strong>Splintur Hollows, Rowan's Father<strong>

She says serve the customers, I serve the customers. She says fix the roof, I fix the roof. She says get the meat, I get the meat. And yet she _still _yells.

Fifty years old an' I'm still no closer to understandin' women than the day I developed my first crush.

I give a low sigh, almost inaudible over the sounds of my boots plunging into the earth and cracking twigs. Perhaps I should cut Yewla a bit o' slack. I've heard women tend to have a stronger connection to their children – maybe something to do with the fact that they give birth to 'em. So she's prob'ly takin' Rowan's death harder than me.

Still . . . neither of us were ever really attached to the boy. I mean, sure, we _tried_ an' everything. It's just, from a very young age he was . . . _different._ An' District 7's no place for different. If you're anythin' less than the richest of the rich, you're a lumberjack. Strong, hardy – maybe not the best conversationalist, but you know how to work. Different people, at least, different like Rowan, need doctors. Special kinds of doctors. Ones that we don't have here in District 7 because our people have a mold and everyone supposed to _fit _that mold.

Maybe if was a different different, things woulda been all right. Like, I dunno, if he wanted to be all artistic, or was too scrawny to ever make it choppin' wood. But he was Rowan different, and Rowan different was bad enough before – the number of kids I had coming into the butcher shop to complain about his behaviour was astounding. I 'member this one kid, not too long ago . . . Syder something. He'd looked absolutely awful, stumblin' into my shop and rantin' on about Rowan's, ah . . . hobby. Poor kid, I'd made the mistake of mentionin' his name when I'd confronted my son that night. Heard this Syder spent two weeks at the doctor's after that.

Now, though, people don' even come into the shop. Not after wha' Rowan did to tha' little girl on TV. They still need their meat, o' course, and seein' as we're the best butcher's in town, they still give us business. But the only one to enter the shop is that conceited bastard Tax Ronanbough, a teen who gets hired solely because he's the "Delivery Boy with no fear of the human butchers".

Human butchers – like he's sayin' me an' Yewla are the same as Rowan. Jeez, we don' use people meat, we use _animals_. Obvious, seein' as I'm out here lookin' for more now.

The deer prints I'm trackin' make deep impressions in the dirt – a good sign tha' the beast is large. An' large means more meat. My grip tightens 'round my bow, one the Peacekeepers allow me to possess because it's necessary for my job an' they wan' their meat too. Animal can' be more than a little further . . .

"Shoo. Shoo! Get away, you ridiculous creature!"

The woman's voice shock me into stoppin', soundin' crisp, clear an' eloquent – defin'ly not the type o' tone I'm used to hearin' in the woods. Forgettin' the deer for a momen', I turn left and push my way through some bushes towards the source o' the noise, comin' face to face with a woman being attacked by a giant wolf.

"Run, ma'am!" My fingers, so big and fumbling with any task but archery, have an arrow nocked an' ready before the beast can make another move. Bu' surprisingly, the woman steps forward an' blocks my path.

"Put that down," she says sharply, eyein' the weapon in my hands with distaste. "How dare you try to hurt the creatures of this forest!"

"Bu' . . . Bu' . . ." I glance from the woman to the wolf, which is currently . . . nuzzlin' her leg? "Ain't he attackin' you?"

The woman's frown deepens. "No, he _isn't._" She's careful to stress the las' word, either to ge' her poin' across or to emphasise her proper grammar. "Although," she continues, roundin' on the beast. "I did tell him to get out of here!"

I thought the situation couldn' ge' anymore surprisin', bu' then I catch sight o' somethin' 'round the animal's neck. "Is tha' . . . is tha' a _collar _on the wolf? Who puts a collar on a wolf?"

Somethin' in the woman's gaze softens as she continues to watch the beas'. "My daughter."

"Then ma'am, your daughter's crazy."

She stiffens visibly, all traces o' tenderness meltin' out o' her expression – you see? _Women_ – can never understand 'em, never tell what they're gonna do next. "My daughter was Gwen Watkins, the girl who earned fourth place in this year's Hunger Games. How _dare_ you speak of her that way."

Oh lord – Gwen Watkins? The little girl Rowan . . . "Oh, ma'am, I am so sorry."

"You should be." Bu' even as she says it, she recognises more than jus' regular pity in my eyes. "Why?"

"My son . . . you see, my son . . ."

She comes to the conclusion before I can find the words I need to say it. "Rowan Hollows," she whispers, her eyes widenin' in shock. Then narrowin' in rage. "You . . ." Her glare scares me, even if I am twice as wide as her an' a foot taller. "_You disgust me_."

Then she's turnin' on her heel and stridin' away, leavin' me and a confused wolf behind. I feel awful though, like I need to say somethin' more – though knowin' me, I'll probably jus' screw it up. "Ma'am, wait!"

I wasn' even expectin' her to listen, but surprisingly, she does, turnin' back an' given me a look that could make a grizzly bear cower. "_What_?"

"I jus' . . . I think . . ." I can' find the words to express how sorry I am though, and all tha' ends up comin' out o' my mouth is, "I think you should keep the wolf."

"What?" This time, it's more incredulous than angry, which is at leas' some improvement. However, tha' tone changes quickly, her expression morphin' back to enraged once more. "Why?"

"You said it was your daughter's."

"Exactly." An' this time, her look is accompanied by a hint o' sadness as she glances at the wolf – good lord, how do some people keep track o' feelin' so many emotions at once? "He reminds me too much of her."

"An' is tha' really a bad thing?"

She looks back up at me, tha' same sadness still present amidst her anger. There's silence for a momen', an awkward silence in which I become sure I've said the wrong thing. But then, "I suppose you're less like your son than I'd thought."

She whistles once, an' the wolf goes boundin' towards her, excited to finally be wanted again. Just as she turns to go though, she stops, takes a deep breath an' adds, "I'm sorry for your loss as well."

Women. Sometimes, you never understan' 'em. They'll yell at you, show nothin' but anger an' disgust, then suddenly they'll turn around an' share your pain.

I guess this world is jus' full o' surprises.

* * *

><p><strong>Dhara Toumay, Catherine's Friend<strong>

"Dhara?"

"Mm?"

I rise up slightly from my position lying down, surprised to see my younger sister Jaz slowly making her way across the roof. Our house is flat on top, and as long as you're careful where you put your feet, it can be the perfect place to lie down and watch the stars. I always thought Jaz was too scared to come up here though.

She sees this in my questioning gaze and shrugs. "It's a bit nerve-wracking . . . but I wanted to see you. You rarely come down from here."

It's true – since Cathy left for the Games, I've spent more and more time up here, isolating myself from everyone and only coming down for school. My father was fine with it, at first – I think he figured I'd get over her death soon and everything would go back to normal. Yet it's been four months since the Games ended and I just . . . can't. How am I supposed to forget the best friend I ever had? How am I supposed to forget the girl who saved my life?

I don't cry, at least, not a lot anymore. I don't think my body is capable of producing anymore tears. Sometimes I imagine my insides, all dried up and hollow from so much sobbing – I don't know if that's what they look like, but I know it's definitely how they feel.

"Isn't it late?" I ask, trying to think up reasons for Jaz to leave so I can be left alone to my thoughts once more. "You should be in bed."

"I was." Jaz lies down carefully beside me, and now that we're close, I can see the paleness in her face, the nervous biting of her lip. "But I had another-"

"Nightmare," I finish for her, and Jaz nods slowly. Even at ten, my sister occasionally wakes up screaming in terror. Usually it's a rare occurrence, but when something particularly traumatic happens, it can linger in her memory for a long time. She's still scarred by the public shooting we had to witness, the first time she saw someone die in reality, not on a TV screen.

Everyone knew Taralo Hicken's parents would be punished, what with the different nature of their interview. Their execution date was set soon after their son himself had died – something I guess the officials had wanted his parents to see first. The event was public, of course, so that it could dissuade anyone from ever attempting what the Hickens had tried to do – but instead, it sparked something inside a lot of citizens. Tollin and Mina Hicken had been dragged onto the shooting platform and tied side by side, but all the while shouting how everything they had said during the interviews had been a lie. How they'd loved their son dearly, how he hadn't deserved to die, how none of Panem's children did. Their last declaration before they were shot was that, even knowing the penalty, they would still choose to hide and protect Taralo a thousand times over. Because he was their son.

"Can you tell me about the stars again?" My sister's voice startles me out of the gruesome memory, and I glance over at her, sighing at the hopeful look on her face.

"Maybe some other time, Jaz."

"Please?"

Her tone is so imploring, I find myself unconsciously giving in. "All right. Those ones up there," I say, gesturing to a collection of stars and attempting to connect the dots with my finger, "Make up Sagittarius, a god and archer. See, they're firing an arrow from a bow. And over there, that's Columba. That one's only made up of five stars, and together they form a dove."

Jaz nods, though I can tell she's not seeing the same thing I am. Most people don't. To them, the stars are just a mess of lights scattered across the sky. But I can read the stories and legends they hold. "And which one . . . which one is Mom?"

The question causes me to pause for a moment before I slowly lift my finger at point at one of the brightest stars in the sky. Even Jaz sees this one, and for a moment, neither of us speak, both looking up at the spot where I'm sure Mom now rests. It's kind of a tradition in District 6 that, if you don't allow your body to be used for medical science after you die, then you're cremated. Everyone forms their own stories about what happens after that, but I like to think that as the smoke rises, so does your soul, up and up and up until you come to rest with all the other stars in the sky. Cathy was cremated, and Taralo too – even though his parents weren't there to pay for the procedure, the rest of the district chipped in to help. Even though the Peacekeepers tried to stop it, the Hicken family has hugely influenced people around the district.

"What's that one?"

Once again, Jaz's voice breaks the silence as she points to the first constellation I showed her. I sigh, ready to tell her _again_ that it's Sagittarius, but something registers inside my mind and I stop. The constellation usually has the rough appearance of a stick figure drawing a bow, and for some reason, it's lately become one of my favourites. I know every star that makes it up, and the shimmering one Jaz points to now is definitely not one of them.

I raise myself up slightly to get a bit better of a look, and the shifting moves the pin attached to my shirt. Before she was cremated, when she was first sent back to us, her parents returned my star pin. Her token. I'd thrown it away, not ever wanting to see it again; I'd thought it'd protect her and it hadn't, it hadn't and it was all my fault. I don't even know when the change happened, but after that, I'd suddenly started wearing it all the time, never wanting to take it off. Never wanting to forget her.

And it's this pin that gives me an idea, once I look back up at the new star. When people die, their souls float upwards into the sky. Where they look down on the living, watching us constantly. And protecting us. Everybody becomes a star.

_Hi Cathy, _I think, and though I feel sad, my heart feels less heavy as well. _I was hoping I'd see you again._

"That star," I begin to Jaz, "represents one of the noblest, bravest heroes ever to walk this Earth. They saved dozens of lives, either in brave self-sacrifices or daring missions that only the best could pull off. Here, let me tell you the story of one of their most heroic quests . . ."

* * *

><p><strong>Damien O'Conner, Perrin's Brother-In-Law<strong>

I should be there, I know I should be. But even the doctor told me to get out, get some air. Apparently labour can last a while and I was looking pretty noticeably sick.

I think it's partly due to the fact that I've always had a thing against hospitals, but also I guess, I was expecting something less . . . painful to watch. The doctors assured everything was fine, that it was all normal, but Sandrine's face, screwed up in agony as she suffered through "contractions", as the nurse called them, led me to believe otherwise. But when I'd expressed my concerns to Calandre, Sandrine's mother – and now, I guess, my mother-in-law, what with the wedding last month – she'd just smiled, told me it was all natural and reminded me I was lucky to be born a man so I would never have to go through all that. It's something I'd taken for granted my whole life, but after watching Sandrine in that hospital room, I couldn't thank my y-chromosomes enough.

Her words had reassured me, at least. Even if Sandrine still looked like she was going through a lot of pain, I trusted Calandre's judgement. After all, she'd been through the same process – three times. And on one of those occasions, she'd had twins.

I don't want to walk too far from District 4's hospital, though. It's a small, pure white building set close to the coast so those in fishing accidents can get immediate treatment, and for a moment, I debate wandering down to the beach. But it's a bit farther than I'd like, so instead my feet take me to the place closest to the hospital: District 4's graveyard.

I'd never thought of that as the best place for a cemetery – kind of gives those in the hospital an ominous feel – but as my younger brother likes to point out, it's convenient. Most people aren't buried in the cemetery anyways; here in District 4, we have a special ceremony where we send our dead out to sea. That's what we did with Perrin– at least, what was left of him. Ugh, even though the Games ended nearly seven months ago, the thought of the horrors that happened in them still makes me queasy.

I don't think anyone in District 4 was expecting to send such a violent, insane tribute into the Games. We've become known more as the relaxed Career district, the one that has off-and-on years for volunteers. But Meredith was something else entirely.

She didn't even get a sea burial, from what I heard. With no family around to organise one, and certainly no friends to do so either, her coffin stayed dumped by the cemetery until someone took pity on her and dug a grave. My brother and his friends made her a tombstone too, which I thought was a nice gesture considering she'd trained them along with the other fifteen-year-olds who'd wanted to volunteer. But then I saw the inscription.

_Here lies Meredith Blade, a crazy bitch from beginning to end._

_And don't forget Darrel the dragon! May he rest in peace and freedom now._

Usually, dishonouring the dead would be considered a crime throughout the district. But I don't think anyone really cared enough to call my brother and his friends out on their "gesture of goodwill".

"Damien!" I look up from the ground to see Bettany, Sandrine's older sister running towards me. She doesn't even need to say her next words before I'm up and sprinting back to the hospital. "It's time."

There are only about six rooms for patients in the building – even in a richer district like 4, this is all we can afford – and Sandrine's is easy to locate because of the amount of people standing around the doorway looking in. My whole family's here, as well as most of Sandrine's, and like many in District 4, we have plenty of relatives. However, they all step aside for me the moment I enter the hospital, allowing me a clear path inside.

Sandrine's mother is sitting next to her, as is her father in his wheelchair, all three of them staring down at a little bundle in Sandrine's arms with looks of pure, absolute joy. It's such a picturesque tableau that I immediately stop right in the doorway, not wanting to ruin the moment. But Sandrine looks over and notices immediately, an enormous smile on her face despite the pain she'd been in for the past eight hours. "Get over here, you."

I grin despite myself, and slowly make my way over to her bedside. Holy crap – I can't _believe_ this is actually happening. But it is, it is because when I look at the bundle in her arms, a pair of the most beautiful sea green eyes I've ever seen stare back up at me. Those are Sandrine's, but I can see how he takes after me as well. Short, curly black hair, more tanned skin – this is my _son_. My son. Oh my god, I have a son!

"He's beautiful," I tell her, feeling a few tears of joy prick at my eyes. "He's, wow, he's just incredible."

Sandrine smiles, leaning her head on my shoulder. "Well, I can't take all the credit."

I try to casually wipe my eyes, even though I don't want to take my gaze off the baby for even a second. My baby. I still can't believe this. "What do you want to name him?"

She's silent for a moment, and that's when I glance from one pair of vibrant green eyes to another. Hers are filled to the brim with joy, of course – but there's a little hint of sadness in there, a tiny bit of sadness as her mind fills with memories. And I realise immediately what she wants to name him. Of course – it was a stupid question, really.

I look back at the baby and smile, slowly outstretching a hand to caress his thin, black hair. "Hello, little Perrin," I whisper, looking to Sandrine for confirmation and seeing the tears of happiness now brimming in her eyes. "Welcome to the family."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lura and Isaac have a currently platonic relationship. At least, so Lura believes :D<strong>_

_**Anyways, hope everyone enjoyed it! I know it was long (especially with that A/N), yet it may have seemed rushed because I was trying to cram 12 POVs in one chapter. Sorry if certain tributes' family or friends weren't mentioned as much, sometimes it was hard to bring them up or I just didn't have time, seeing as there was no way I was going to write this chapter with 24 POVs :) Still, hope everyone enjoyed and is preparing for the next chapter, which will be the final one in this story! So excited :D**_


	54. The End of the Beginning

_**FINAL CHAPTER :O**_

_**Also much shorter, seeing as it's more of a quick epilogue/intro to the sequel. And the next Games's theme :D**_

_**Oh, and I don't own the Hunger Games. Don't say that enough :) Nor do I own any of the fairytales mentioned in this chapter. Nor do I own the Iliad.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Janaff Skye<strong>

A victor is supposed to have a hobby. I heard it was originally a tradition started by the mentors themselves, who decided they needed to take up activities that would get their minds off the memories of guilt and fear. But of course, the Capitol found a way to make money off it – marketing books and how-to guides such as _Whittling with Aaryn Burch, victor of the__31__st__ Games!_ or _So you want to cook like a victor?_ And now it's mandatory for everyone to have a hobby.

When Caesar questioned my on the topic during my Victory Tour interview, I said I had two: creating miniature models and writing. Of course the Capitol didn't understand, and I hear tiny figurines are now all the rage over there, while I've been constantly bugged by their publishing companies who can't wait to get their hands on my "book".

They have no idea what I actually meant.

The lights slowly flicker to life in the library – a side effect of being a victor, in addition to the food parcels we receive each month, 8 has also been guaranteed more consistent electricity, for this year, at least. Still, the bulbs in this place are old, their rays barely stretching across the main part of the library and leaving many a dark corner untouched. I try to ignore those, though, try not to look at them – while my fear has lessened slightly over the months since the Games, there's always a chance I'll see _her_ hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. Visiting her home district only a month ago didn't help the process of forgetting much either.

Every time I step in here, I can't help but feel my heart sink at how disappointed my grandfather would have been if he'd seen the place in this condition. Shelves shoved unceremoniously out of the way, pages torn from books, markings drawn on the floor in paint – exactly the opposite of the library's old pristine condition. Often, I tell myself to stop what I'm doing, that I'm dishonoring my grandparents' memories by ruining their home; after all, I have a new house in Victor's Village that I could easily use instead. But that's not a home, not by a long shot – a dungeon, perhaps, a cage. Or a torture chamber. Especially after the newly added decoration I'd found in my bedroom the morning my Victory Tour was supposed to begin.

_I was going to put this in my home, but I just don't have the room! Besides, I figured Panem's newest victor deserved a gift, especially since I haven't given you anything else. I'm dreadfully sorry for that, my dear boy, but I hope this makes up for it now! So congratulations again, Janaff!_

_- Varlios Strombin_

The note was attached to a tapestry that had somehow been hung in my bedroom during the night without my noticing. That fact alone would have paralysed me with fear – after all, District 8 is supposed to be a safe place, where even the threats of the Capitol can't reach. But this, combined with the tapestry's picture, froze me in place until my prep team arrived to prepare me for the Tour.

And try as I might, I can't get it off the wall. Though I have a feel that even if I did, a new one would shortly replace it. So every night I'm watched by two pairs of dying eyes, the tapestry capturing in gruesome detail the image of my grandparents lying cold and forgotten in the town square.

The library, at least, doesn't have any of that. But it holds other memories, memories I simultaneously want to forget and can't seem to stop remembering. They've overwhelmed me, the fear completely taking control and forcing me to unleash it in some way. Hence the mess in the library.

Cautiously, I shuffle along the wall, back pressed against it so as not to disturb the multitude of leaves scattered across the floor, supposedly representing a forest. I told Caesar Flickerman I was into models – I didn't say I was any good. My tower is a group of books stacked together, the mountains are a series of hardcover novels set up precariously to form long, triangular tunnels, the trap merely a convenient hole in one of the floor's wooden boards. To anyone else, it might look like some sort of odd, random mess. But to me, it's so much more.

It's the arena.

I barely even remember deciding to begin building it. One day I just looked down and realised I'd spent two hours looking for one of my grandfather's special, golden-coloured pens – unconsciously, my mind had registered that this would be the best I could do for a "Cornucopia". And the arena just grew from there. It's become an obsession, one the logical part of my brain continuously tries to ignore and reject. _It's not healthy. You should be moving past this. Stop, Janaff._

But since the Games, a different part of my mind has developed. One not ruled by reason and sense, but memories – and the overly powerful emotions of fear, guilt and rage. So my arena grew, stretching out until it practically covered the entire floor of the library. Needless to say, this place never opens for business anymore.

Also littered across the ground are pages, originally from novels now covered in my scrawled handwriting, barely legible. The Capitol believes I write my own stories, but I don't; I rewrite them. Specifically, fairytales. Because the originals were all wrong.

Take _Alice in Wonderland_, for instance. I was lucky enough to find two copies of that story in the library, and its pages are spread between the tower and the trap. The tale was illustrated as well, and some images have been cut and placed about my arena, like what I've done for all the fairytales. For this one, though, I have Alice and the Mad Hatter at the Cornucopia, while the Queen of Hearts is by the trap.

And of course, I've rewritten and rewritten the story, altering the false parts and making them true. Part of me – the logical part of me – knows this is stupid. _They're fairytales, just fairytales, Janaff; they're not supposed to make any sense. _

But they're not just fairytales. I've lived them, I've lived them _all_. And the books got them wrong.

Alice did meet a queen, an evil queen, but it wasn't the Queen of Hearts. No, no, this was the Queen of No Hearts, who challenged Alice to a game of croquet all the same. Except it was different. In the story, they used flamingos and hedgehogs, but in reality, the mallet is a sword and the ball is a heart. Usually, you hit a ball to get it rolling, moving, except when you play croquet with the Queen of No Hearts. Then you play to stop the ball. Hit it once and the _thump-thump_ slows, hit it twice, you can barely hear it, hit it three times and the heart stops completely, declaring the Queen of No Hearts as the victor. No, winner. Not quite a victor.

The Mad Hatter, however, was taken care of by the real Queen of Hearts. No tea party that day – all the cups held was blood, blood pouring out of the kettle, blood running down the table, blood pooling around the dead boy's corpse. Of course, the Queen of Hearts later met the same fate, and what do you know, her white roses could be dyed red after all, just like the girl who had died red. There was certainly enough paint after that.

My fingers tremble as I pick up the pages, eyes skimming over lines I'd written previously. It's become almost a ritual for me to make it down here at least once a day to read the stories to myself. I don't know why I do it – the pain it causes is sharp and unrelenting. But someone needs to remember these people. Someone needs to know the truth about the fairytales.

I set one of the new _Alice in Wonderland_ copies back on the tower, nearly upsetting another sheaf of paper balanced precariously on top. Ah, yes, I know that one well – _Peter Pan_, the boy who never wanted to grow up – another cut-out of a figure placed the Cornucopia. Yes, unfortunately for him, there's only one way to stop the aging process in the real world. In the story, his shadow was severed and sewed back on, but in reality, it was his soul separating from his body, all due to a needle much too big to block with a thimble.

Like some sort of heart-wrenching routine, I force myself to go through each story, relive each moment I either saw in real life or watched during the recaps. Aladdin_, _at the castle alongside Robin Hood, Hansel, Snow White, the evil queen and the boy from The Juniper Tree. A thief who was always one jump ahead. Until he took one jump too many, and then the only thing up was his time. Rapunzel_, _placed in the forest – a silly girl who left the safety of her tower, fell down and straight into the arrow of Little Red Riding Hood, who herself fought a monster much more ferocious than a wolf. Robin Hood_, _who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Yet Robin was no robin, and had no wings to stop his deadly fall.

_Snow White. Hansel and Gretel. Rumpelstiltskin. _Many and more fairytales are spread throughout the room, all written by liars who wished to preserve the ignorance that comes with every "happily ever after". Real stories don't end like that. Real stories have villains and torture and monsters, all right, but they don't have fairy godmothers or friendly dragons or talking furniture to make things better. _Cinderella, Mulan, Beauty and the Beast. _Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Only one story stays somewhat true to reality; at least, I'd like to think it does. _The Juniper Tree_. On my Victory Tour, I was forced to review the deaths of all twenty-three tributes (well, twenty-two. I couldn't manage to watch Meredith's and the events leading up to it). It's tradition for separate videos to be prepared showing montages of individual tributes, which are shown when the victor visits their district during the Tour. I guess it's to give the dead children a bit more recognition, since so many of them were ignored in the official recap just so the editors could have more screen time for me. I'd seen most of the deaths already, even seen some of them twice if I'd been present for it back in the arena. But I'd completely missed the last moments of both tributes from 6 – at that point during the official recap ceremony, I'd been too overwhelmed with panic at the thought of seeing Meredith again to focus on anything else. During the Victory Tour, however, I'd viewed them both – seen Gwen push Catherine over the edge of the tower in what I believe to have been an accident. And watched Taralo fall from the dragon, hitting the ground hard. And smiling. Not an insane smile like Meredith's, not a fake smile like the one I'm forced to wear whenever a camera's around; just a small, genuine smile. Like he was perfectly content. Like he was getting his happily ever after.

So perhaps _The Juniper Tree_ tells it true, the way it says the boy is reborn in the flames and reunites with his family. Perhaps sometimes, death is truly the better option. I won't deny I've thought about it, especially after the tapestry came, reminding me of the fact that I have no one left alive who loves me. Yet I've never pursued the idea any further. None of the other victors seem to have either, seeing as they're all still alive today. I guess, after going through the arena and suffering through so much to win the Games, you develop a sort of survival instinct that's mighty hard to quench. Sure, some of them must have more painful ways of dealing with their memories, their guilt and their fear. But no one can find it in themselves to throw away the life they worked so desperately hard to keep.

Still, _The Juniper Tree _has held its position as one of three unmarked fairytales. It's the only one I haven't changed because it may hold grains of truth. The second is _hers, _though it's more a collection of stories than just one. Every tale has an evil queen, and every one of them end with her defeated and dying. I just haven't had the heart to change it – why not try and pretend, at least to some degree, that villains can be vanquished? Reading over some of those unchanged stories, I can almost, _almost _manage to delude myself into thinking such. It does nothing to stop my nightmares, but at least it's nice to pretend.

The third story I haven't touched, haven't even opened. It was the only one my grandfather hadn't had in his library, most likely due to its uniqueness. It's not actually a fairytale, not really – more like a myth. Older than all the others, one I thought would be impossible to find. Until the Victory Tour.

_Almost there. I'm almost there. With my victory speech in District 1 done, all I need to do is get through tonight's dinner, and then it's off to the Capitol. Then my home district, and then I'm _done_. It feels so close now – mind you, I've felt like I could get through anything since we got District 4 out of the way._

_I take a deep breath and proceed down the steps, hoping I've given Isaac enough time to walk fifteen steps – O'Cleon made it very clear that an exact amount of time must pass between when each of us enter. It's odd, sometimes I think I understand him so well – just another shallow, fashion-obsessed Capitloite – and then he turns around and does something completely unexpected. Like how he comforted me, back when my grandparents were murdered. Honestly, I've just given up on trying to figure him out._

_I walk down the steps and into the Justice Building's lavish dining hall; District 1 really goes all out for Hunger Games celebrations, even if their tributes weren't the ones to win. Unfortunately, before I can get to the table and sit safely beside Isaac and O'Cleon, I'm forced to meet each of the District 1 mentors and shake their hands as they welcome me into the life of a victor. Unfortunately, Isaac wasn't the most social of people during his first year of mentoring, and he couldn't give me many tips on the Hunger Games winners I'd meet in each district. Still, most of the time, even what little he could tell me was reassuring. "I don't know much about Jean Ome, but the other two Five mentors are these crazy drunks, don't worry about them." "The District Four guys seem nice enough, but they like to gossip so don't tell them anything personal." "I know Two seems like the worst of the Career districts, but trust me, their mentors are absolutely fine. Just wait 'til you meet Lura."_

_This time, however, I've heard differently. "Watch out for Splendor Gold," Isaac told me this morning, gaze completely serious as our train pulls into District 1. "She's pretty bad. Oh, and I heard Zeus Dynamos set his kid up to be reaped so he'd go into the Games. Probably want to avoid him too."_

_However, now, I can't avoid any of them as I'm forced to walk down the line or mentors, reluctantly smiling at each one as numerous cameras focus on our interactions. The first two are fine, at least: Argent Ore takes my hand and offers sincere congratulations while Julius Felfet claps me on the back and tells me I'll make a fine victor. Spinel August, however, is eerily silent as he shakes my hand, his light grey eyes boring into me and I get the strangest feeling that he can stare straight into my soul. Michael Schylla is also quiet, but I expected this – after all, his daughter had to die so I could live, a fact he can't possibly be happy about. Then I get to Splendor, who, instead of taking my hand, merely curls her lip in a sneer and mutters, "Five dollars says this one goes insane before the next Games." Not exactly the most reassuring comment, and I quickly move away from her, positioning myself right in front of District 1's last victor: Zeus Dynamos._

"_I hope you're happy with yourself," he says, also refusing to take my hand as I stare up at him. The anger in his tone makes me flinch away. "There were much better people than you in those Games – much better tributes who should have won. And you killed their chances – you killed _them_. And don't you," he adds, shoving something roughly into my hands, "_ever_ forget it."_

"_Hey, back off." Of course, while I'm rendered scared and speechless when faced with a furious individual, Isaac leaps on the opportunity to show his own hostility, stepping forward and placing himself directly between me and Zeus. If looks could kill, both victors would be dead, the glares they send each other's way are so powerful._

"_Look, let's just go sit," I say, placing a hand on Isaac's shoulder. I appreciate his interference, I really do, but I'm not keen to have a repeat of his beating at the hands of 8's Head Peacekeeper. The boy is tough, I'll admit that without a doubt. But he's also to proud and too stubborn to know not to pick fights with those who can and will beat him. In more ways than one._

It was only after I'd gotten to the table that I'd taken a look at what Zeus had forced into my hands. A book, with elaborate, golden script scrawled across the front. _The Iliad. _I'd never heard of it, but I could put two and two together. How Zeus had gotten a hold of the fairytale his godson represented was beyond me, yet now it was mine, an everlasting reminder of the heroic, self-sacrificing tribute with two children who had died so I could live. Zeus had been right – I had essentially murdered all twenty-three of those tributes.

I've finished reciting all the altered fairytales to myself, yet this time, it doesn't feel like I'm finished. Not with my gaze continually wandering towards the mountains of my arena, where sits one of the only pristine books left in the library. It's right next to the torn pages of _The Little Mermaid_, which I've altered to show how Prince Eric sacrificed himself for Ariel and died while she watched, helpless. But I know that story. I don't know Achilles's.

Unconsciously, my fingers stretch out towards the unopened book. So far, I've been worried reading this tale might spark more feelings of guilt within me, feelings I really don't need if I'm going to remain sane. That's already a tough enough job – look at me, standing amidst a model of my arena, telling myself fairytale authors are liars and that only I know the truth. As much as I like to think I'm fine, some part of me just can't let go of the arena. And that part of me wants to know the whole story. Every last tale, every last lie they tell. Who knows – maybe this _Iliad_ is one of the rare truthful ones.

I pick it up cautiously, careful not to disturb my mountains and send them tumbling to the ground like a series of dominoes. Then, I proceed towards the only part of the library I've left mostly untouched: my grandfather's desk. But I quickly think better of sitting in his chair – it hurts too much, to remember days where he'd sit here, occasionally helping customers find books but mostly just talking to me, reciting tales of his life before the Dark Days, before the Hunger Games. I've tried to get over their deaths, to push them from my mind but I just . . . I just miss them _so much_.

_So maybe a nice book will distract you. _I slide a finger up the bridge of my nose, an unconscious gesture I still do, even though my glasses are no longer present to slip down my face. _Just lose yourself in the fairytale – accept the lie of happily ever after, just once. Try to enjoy-_

But something throws me off, before I even begin to read the words on the page.

_Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another._

The "J" in "Jove" is underlined. It's faint, barely noticeable unless you're observant and taking the time to read the book. But there's definitely a mark under the "J". And the "a" in "day", the "n" in "on", another "A" in "Atreus", and two "f"s in "of" and "first". But it doesn't stop there though, not by a long shot; hundreds of letters have been underlined, all by the same faint pencil. While I may not have touched this book, someone else clearly has. And really, there's only one person it could have been.

I highly doubt a man like Zeus Dynamos would choose to randomly underline letters in books for fun. So, for the first time in a while, my logical mind trumps the emotional side, whirring with excitement as it kicks into action once more. Because I'd recognise something like this instantly. It's a code – a cipher. A puzzle. Something the old Janaff used to be good at. Something I can do now in the hopes of slowly bringing myself back to normal.

It takes a while copying all the letters out onto a spare sheet of paper with the Cornucopia pen. Even after that, I have to sort the mess into actual words, figure out where the spaces should go. But after a few mistakes, I'm rewarded with a legible message, one that stuns both my logic and emotions into silence.

_Janaff,_

_I suppose I should apologise for the rude reception I know I'll have to give you during the Victory Tour. Capitol is always watching. Which is why I had to give you the book like this. President has a strange sense of humour and while I doubt he'd appreciate me giving you a letter, handing you a book that would make you forever remember killing my son would please him enough not to make him suspicious. Just in case he did get one of his men to flip through it though, I used a code – figured you'd be good at that sort of thing. Granted, it's not much of a code – Spinel insisted I do something more complex, but seeing as _I_ was the one having to write it, I decided to ignore his advice because frankly, I don't have the time or brains to come up with something better._

_So hopefully you're the one reading this, otherwise the Peacekeepers will be knocking on both our doors soon to put a bullet in my head for me next words._

_How would you like to instigate a rebellion?_

_Spinel and I have been planning one for thirty-six years, getting more and more members in on it. I won't list their names here, not going to risk condemning more people, but for this to work, we need someone in almost every district working with us. Spinel didn't think that Isaac kid was the right one – too stubborn, lets his anger rule his decisions. But apparently he thinks you're different. So we're taking a big risk, bringing you in like this. At least it'll become easier to communicate with you soon. According to the victor tabloids, you turn eighteen next month, which will make meeting you in the Capitol a lot easier, as awful as the rest of your visit might be. But you don't need to hear about that right now._

_What you do need to know is that every victor in with us has been quietly spreading thoughts of rebellion throughout the districts and while some are harder to win over, thoughts of dissent are beginning to rule. Six sounds about ready to blow, while Ten has already had some small revolts. Eight is a small district, a tough one because we need almost everyone to be on board in order for you to make a difference. We have faith in you though – after all, it can't be harder than converting One._

_So get out there and start leaving whispers of rebellion around the district. Just make sure you're subtle about it – we don't want to get caught before we even have a chance to set this thing in motion. As for when that will happen, I'm not entirely sure. But it will happen soon, trust me. We're not going to allow the Hunger Games to continue much longer. Or the Capitol._

_Zeus _

There's one more fairytale I haven't touched, mainly because it has no place in my arena. After all, the Pied Piper is still here. Yet I've seen a copy lying on one of the now almost empty shelves that used to hold children's books. I just haven't touched it, haven't corrected it. Because I'm trying to make it come true.

The people of Hamelin had a rat problem, so the story goes, and they hired the Pied Piper to rid them of the rats. He did so, killed them all, and all he asked in return was the payment he was due. But the people laughed in his face and sent him on his way with not a coin in his pocket.

So the Piper took his revenge. He took all of Hamelin's children away, the price for all their misdeeds and mistreatment of others. And Hamelin learned never to cheat others again.

I murdered the rats, just like the Capitol wanted. Twenty-three dead rats, that's what they wanted, and while I didn't kill them all myself, I might as well as they died so that I could live. And in return, I was promised fame, fortune and, most of all, a life of happiness and security. Yet since I've won, I've done nothing but suffer. The president has manipulated me, made me relive my worst fears with his whispers and, just to make sure I remained completely complacent, he had my grandparents murdered. But that's where he made his fatal mistake. Because I have no other family, and no friends he can hurt. He took away the last thing he could use against me, and now I'm free to do as I choose. The only person who will get hurt is me.

The Capitol needs to learn what monsters they are, how they cannot continue to take the districts' children, murder them in cold blood and expect to get away with it. No, something needs to be done. The Pied Piper needs to take his revenge.

So watch out, Varlios. Because one of these days, I'm going to come along and pipe away everything your Capitol holds dear.

* * *

><p>"Coming home in ten minutes, are you?"<p>

"Ah!" Kelwin jumped in surprise, nearly tipping over in his seat as the new arrival slinked through the doorway. Verena – w-why was she at his office?

"That's what you told me over the phone," she continued, slowly moving closer to his desk. "Half an hour ago. So I came to check up on you. Because I really don't think you know what you're missing."

Only then had he noticed the enormous, fluffy fur coat she was wearing, and a second after he registered its presence, his wife shrugged out of the jacket and let it drop unceremoniously to the floor, leaving him gaping at what was left. Underneath, Verena was wearing nothing more than the skimpiest, most see-through dress in existence. It looked more like a shirt. Made of plastic wrap.

"Verena . . . what . . .?" He could feel himself turning red, his throat going dry as his eyes continued to take in his wife, who had an eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. "What are you . . .?"

"Doing?" Her smirk widened as she came to stand next to him, leaning against the edge of his desk and only serving to make him more flustered. "Making sure you come home tonight. I'm not going to allow you to spend another five months wasting away inside your little office. Even if said office is new and bigger."

"But . . . I'm Head Gamemaker and . . . and we don't have a theme for the Games yet and I have . . ." he petered off, and despite the fact that he knew he had an incredible amount of work, he couldn't mask the obvious desire in his eyes, or the reluctance as he said his next words. "So much to do."

"Well then, I'll wait." And hopping right up onto his desk, Verena pulled a book out of her purse and began to read, making sure not to cross her legs and hold the book anywhere that might hide a part of her beautiful body.

Kelwin swallowed, knowing full well he was never going to get any work done like this. "I think maybe . . . maybe you should wait at home. I promise, I'll only be a few more minutes and-"

"Nope. I'm staying here."

"But the kids-"

"Off on sleepovers, both of them." She leaned closer to Kelwin, frowning. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"No, of course not dear, but-"

"Good." Verena sat back on the desk, the grin now present on her lips telling Kelwin that she was very much enjoying distracting him. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, because he had so, _so_ much work to do, a small part of him was revelling in this as well. Especially as his eyes travelled from her face to his paper, moving all the way down her very visible body. No, he was definitely not getting any more work done.

He tried, though, furiously keeping his eyes on the files even though all he could hear was the turning of pages as Verena continued to wait. It was a constant reminder that his wife was sitting right on the desk where he worked, and try as he might to forget, he couldn't help it as his gaze frequently travelled back to her. She looked so beautiful, not to mention how nice it was that she had actually come all the way to his office just to try and convince him to leave. Plus, if the kids really _weren't _home . . .

"All right, I'm done!" The words were said perhaps a bit too excitedly as he slammed a file closed, glancing up at Verena to see her smile over the edge of her book.

"That was fast."

"Well, you know, whether we get a theme idea today or tomorrow doesn't _really _matter . . ."

"Good." She tossed her story onto the desk and hopped off, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from his chair, the two of them so close their noses almost touched. "See you in the car," she whispered before stepping away.

He grinned before a new thought occurred to him. "Wait – did you drive here too?"

"Of course not. I took the subway."

"Wearing _that_?!"

"That's why I brought the coat," Verena said, laughing slightly at his previously horrified expression. "Now come on!"

"All right, all right." His hands practically flew over his desk, gathering all the files into a pile before hoisting them up and under his arm. Wait . . . one thing still remained. "Hey, you forgot your . . ."

He'd been about to say book, but as his free hand reached for it, he realised it wasn't one. At least, not in the usual sense. It was taller, and much thinner, the cover a myriad of bright colours, depicting a tall, strong man in a blue suit, a red cape flowing behind him while an "S" or the same colour was sewn to his chest. _Superman,_ the title proclaimed.

"Verena, what's this?" Kelwin frowned down at the thing as his wife came over.

"Oh, just a comic book. They're all the rage now – more action and pictures than those old fairytales, so of course, once these were discovered, they became the latest fad." She took the comic and shoved it in her purse, looking back up at him with a playful smile. However, it quickly disappeared as she realised the expression on his face hadn't changed.

"Honey, what are you . . . oh, no. No. No, no, no." She took his hand and started dragging him out of his office, shaking her head with every "no". "We are going home, and I don't even want you to _think _about the Games, all right? It's time to _relax, _to forget work. Kelwin, I know that look on your face, just forget the comic book."

"Sorry," he said hurriedly as they made their way down to the building's lobby – Verena had, thank goodness, but her coat back on beforehand.

But as much as he wanted to please his wife, he couldn't get that, that _comic book _out of his head. _More action than those old fairytales. The latest fad._

Perhaps he'd found a theme for the Games after all.

* * *

><p><strong><em>So weird: this story is actually, finally done. SO weird. But I hate long goodbyes and I said a lot of my thank yous in the last chapter, so I'll just say I had a great year and a half with this story, and thank you to everyone who submitted, reviewed, followed, favourited and just made this story possible! I could not have done it without any of you.<em>**

**_And now, look forward to the sequel, the intro to which should be up tonight! To Marvel at Death - yes, I am having more bad wordplay in this title. Hurray! :D_**


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